ms-snape

[ms-snape]

"Heyyy, I started reading your blog few days ago and I gotta say I'm addicted.... I just love your one shots sooo... Could I please request a fanfic where Sirius Black and reader are in an established relationship, but they’ve had a huge argument, leading to both of them giving each other the cold shoulder. Sirius, stubborn as ever, refuses to apologize, but deep down, he’s miserable without the reader. Meanwhile, she is hurt and starts distancing herself, which only makes Sirius realize how much he needs her. Angsty but with a happy ending, you don't have to write it if you don't like the idea btwww...♡♡

Title: Need You (not really proud of this work…sorry)

Warning: angst

Words Count: 2500+

Masterlist

---

The Gryffindor common room was a whirlpool of noise and color, a tempest of laughter, magic, and the reckless freedom that only comes when the end of term is near. Flickering candles floated lazily overhead, casting shifting shadows that danced like ghosts across the faces of students whose smiles were bright with anticipation of holidays and escape. Music throbbed low, enchanted to fill every corner, every crevice, and there, among the throng, was Sirius Black—wild, untamed, a flame that pulled everyone close.

You stood near the stone hearth, your fingers tightening unconsciously around the rim of your butterbeer cup. The heat of the fire brushed your face, but inside you felt cold. You watched him from across the room. Not with the easy affection you usually wore like a second skin, but with a lump of something heavy sitting just beneath your ribs—something like dread.

He wasn’t alone.

Her—Morgan. Her laugh rippled through the crowd, light and clear, cutting through the din with a careless confidence. She leaned in close, the kind of close that made your stomach twist so sharply it threatened to spill out. You saw the way she traced her fingers along his arm, a slow, teasing touch, as if she was marking him like a secret only she was allowed to keep.

Sirius smiled. That slow, devilish smile of his, the one that made everything seem like a game, a challenge to be won. His eyes sparkled with a mischievous light as he matched her teasing tone, his voice dropping to a low murmur that only she could hear. You couldn’t hear the words, but it didn’t matter. You saw enough. The tilt of his head, the way his gaze lingered on her mouth, the careless brush of his hand over hers.

Your breath caught.

The world tilted.

You tried to will your feet to move, to pull you away from the scene that was breaking your heart in slow motion. But your legs felt rooted to the floor, your eyes glued to the cruel spectacle.

Then, suddenly, your grip faltered. The cup slipped from your fingers and shattered on the cold stone floor. The sharp sound was like a gunshot in the noisy room. Heads turned. The laughter faltered. And you turned, because you couldn’t stay.

You fled through the crowd, the heat and the noise fading behind you until all that was left was the pounding of your heart—too fast, too wild.

⸻

You found yourself on the Astronomy Tower, the cold night air biting through your robes, stealing what warmth the fire hadn’t already drained from you. The stars above were cold pinpricks against the black velvet of the sky, distant and indifferent.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to hold together the pieces of your pride and your heartbreak. The ache in your chest was sharp and raw, a wound you hadn’t expected. You wanted to scream, to cry, to throw yourself against the stone walls and shake the hurt out of your bones.

But all you could do was breathe. In and out. In and out.

The silence was broken by footsteps—soft, hesitant. His voice came next, low and thick with whisky.

“I knew I’d find you here.”

You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t. Not yet.

“You shouldn’t be drinking like that.”

His laugh was bitter, sharp-edged. “That’s your opening line?”

Your voice was tight, brittle. “I’m not here for jokes, Sirius.”

He moved closer, the warmth of his body just out of reach. “Y/N—”

You shook your head sharply. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t pretend that everything’s fine. Don’t touch me like you didn’t just spend the evening flirting with someone else.”

His jaw clenched, eyes flashing. “So this is about Morgan.”

“Of course it’s about Morgan.”

“She’s a friend.”

You laughed—dry, hollow, and shattering. “A friend who had her hand on your thigh, Sirius. Don’t lie to me.”

His expression flickered—defensive, angry, hurt. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You did something.” Your voice cracked. “You crossed a line. You smiled at her the way you used to smile at me. You whispered things I wasn’t meant to hear. And you think it doesn’t matter? That I wouldn’t notice?”

He looked away, running a hand through his hair like he was trying to wash the memory from his skin. “You’re overreacting.”

The words stabbed you like a blade. “Am I?”

Tears burned at the edges of your vision, but you refused to let them fall. Not here. Not in front of him. You turned away, your back rigid, shoulders trembling.

“I thought we meant something.”

His voice was quieter now, almost pleading. “We do.”

“But it doesn’t feel like that. Not tonight.”

You could hear the hurt in his breath, the way it trembled like a fragile thing barely held together.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“You didn’t even think about me.”

That was the cruelest wound of all—that you were nothing but an afterthought.

You left before the words could trap you, before you could hear his apologies or excuses. The cold night swallowed you whole.

⸻

There was no music now. No laughter.

Just the hollow echo of what had been, and the jagged crack where it broke.

⸻

The castle carried on, oblivious to the storm that raged inside you. Days blurred into one another, a dull ache tightening around your chest like iron bands. You moved through corridors and classrooms, a ghost in the midst of bustling life, swallowed whole by the heavy silence that stretched between you and Sirius.

You told yourself you were strong, that you could bear the weight of this distance. But strength was a fragile illusion when your heart ached with every stolen glance that met his and quickly looked away. Each encounter was a small wound—silent, invisible to others, but to you, it bled endlessly.

You replayed that night on the Astronomy Tower again and again—the easy warmth of his presence, shattered by the sting of betrayal, the careless touch that wasn’t yours, the whispered words that never reached your ears but cut deep all the same. You wondered if he even understood what he had done, or if he had simply been too drunk, too careless to see.

But it wasn’t just the flirting. It was the breach of something unspoken, something you had both pretended wasn’t there but had held sacred nonetheless. The quiet promises made in fleeting touches, the secret smiles in hidden corners—they all seemed like a lie now, crumbling into dust beneath the weight of his pride and your hurt.

You wanted to scream at him, to demand the apology you needed, the acknowledgement you deserved. But your voice was caught in your throat. Instead, you built walls—tall and unyielding—around your heart, locking away the pain so fiercely you feared it would consume you.

You saw him around the castle—the way his shoulders sagged with exhaustion, the haunted look in his eyes, the flicker of sadness he tried so hard to hide behind that familiar reckless grin. You wanted to reach out, to break the silence, but pride and fear held you prisoner.

You convinced yourself that he didn’t want to come back, that maybe he never truly cared. And that belief became both your shield and your prison.

You were hurting. You were lonely. You were breaking.

But you would never be the first to fall.

⸻

He had always been reckless, wild, untouchable—Sirius Black, the boy who defied every rule and wore his pride like armor. But after that night, that terrible night when he’d crossed a line and shattered something precious, even his bravado felt hollow.

He wandered the castle like a shadow, carrying the weight of his mistakes in silence. The fire in his chest wasn’t the usual reckless blaze; it was a slow burn of regret and emptiness that swallowed him whole. He thought about her—you—constantly, and every time, the ache twisted sharper.

Sirius was a boy who had never learned how to admit weakness, how to ask for forgiveness. Pride was a stubborn beast that snarled and refused to be tamed, and he let it chain him tight, even as it strangled the hope inside him.

Remus saw it—the way Sirius retreated into himself, the haunted look that never left his eyes. He tried to reach out, tried to push Sirius toward the one person who could heal the fracture in his soul.

“Go to her,” Remus said, more than once, his voice steady and insistent. “Say you’re sorry. Tell her how much you need her.”

But Sirius just shook his head, pride stiffening his spine. “I can’t,” he’d say. “Not yet. Not like this.”

He feared the vulnerability, the risk of exposing the raw, broken pieces of himself. To apologize would be to admit that he was less than the legend he’d always pretended to be—to admit that he was scared, lost, and desperate.

And so he suffered alone, drowning in silence. The nights were the worst—when the castle was still and cold and his own thoughts echoed like thunder. He found himself staring at the stars from the same tower where it all began, wondering if you looked up too, wondering if you felt the same emptiness.

Sirius missed you with a desperation he could barely name. Not just the closeness, the touch, the stolen moments—but the friendship, the laughter, the unspoken understanding. Losing you was losing a part of himself he feared he might never find again.

Yet the walls of pride and fear stood taller than ever, and he remained frozen in the space between regret and hope, waiting—for what, he didn’t know.

___

The castle was full of noise, and yet all that existed between you was silence—thick, heavy, and impossible to bridge.

___

Sirius was unraveling.

It wasn’t sudden; it was a slow, painful unspooling of everything he’d held tight for so long—his pride, his reckless bravado, his carefully crafted mask of invincibility. Every day without you was a fresh wound, raw and bleeding. He moved through the castle like a ghost, haunted by your absence, haunted by his own mistakes.

His laughter, once so effortless and bright, had become a brittle echo. The fire in his eyes dimmed, replaced by shadows and regrets. Nights were the hardest—hours spent staring out at the stars from the cold ledge of the Astronomy Tower, his fingers trembling as he crushed a cigarette beneath his boot.

His friends saw it all. Remus, James, Peter—they watched the boy they loved with growing concern. The boy who had always been fearless was now crippled by his own stubbornness.

“Go to her,” Remus urged one evening, his voice calm but firm. “You need to apologize. Not just words—mean it. She deserves that.”

James nodded, his usual teasing replaced by quiet seriousness. “You can’t keep running from this, mate. It’s killing you.”

Sirius’s jaw clenched. The words hit harder than any spell. But the beast inside him, the pride that had protected him his whole life, snarled in defiance. To admit he was wrong? To kneel before you, the person he’d hurt most? It was a terrifying surrender.

But beneath that pride, beneath the fear, was a desperate, aching need.

He needed you.

⸻

The day he finally found the courage to face you, his heart thundered so loudly it felt like it might shatter his ribs. The corridor was nearly empty, the castle quiet in that fragile moment between classes. When he saw you—head bowed, arms crossed tightly over your chest—his breath caught.

You looked away, eyes flashing with a mixture of anger, hurt, and something deeper—something he’d almost forgotten how to read.

“Y/N,” he started, voice rough and uneven. “I—I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. For everything.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

“I don’t expect you to forgive me right away,” he added, swallowing the lump in his throat. “I just needed you to know… I was wrong. I hurt you, and I never wanted to.”

Your eyes flicked up, sharp and guarded.

“You don’t know how much I missed you,” he confessed, voice breaking. “How empty everything felt without you. I was a fool. A stubborn, reckless fool.”

For a long moment, you said nothing. The silence stretched, thick and heavy, filled with all the words that had been left unsaid.

“I don’t want to hear it,” you whispered finally, voice raw. “Not yet.”

Sirius nodded, the pain in your voice cutting deeper than he’d imagined. But he stayed, standing there, willing to wait, willing to face whatever you needed to say or not say.

Days passed in the same painful rhythm. You avoided him, yet he remained close, never pressing, never forcing. Slowly, the walls you’d built began to tremble.

One afternoon, as the sun filtered softly through the stained-glass windows of the library, you found yourself beside him—not by design, but by fate. His gaze met yours, and in that moment, something fragile and hopeful sparked between you.

“I’m still angry,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “But… I don’t want to lose you.”

Sirius’s breath hitched. “You won’t. I swear.”

The tears you’d held back spilled over, and he reached out gently, fingertips brushing against your cheek like a silent vow.

“I’ll never take you for granted again,” he promised, voice trembling with sincerity.

And then, beneath the fading light, with the world holding its breath around you, he leaned in.

Slowly. Tenderly.

Your lips met his in a kiss that was both apology and promise—raw and aching, full of the pain of everything lost and the hope of everything yet to come.

In that moment, broken and beautiful, you found each other again.

⸻

[ms-snape]

Can you write a fic where Severus and Y/n are soulmates? She's the astronomy professor and is a few years younger than Severus. Some angst with a super fluffy ending! Love your work btw💗

Title: Language Of Stars (believe me when I say I don’t even remember writing this😕😥)

Warning: Angst

Words Count: 2000+

Masterlist

___

The Astronomy Tower had always been a place of solitude, perched high above the trembling chaos of teenage magic and flurried footsteps. To most, it was a distant spire in the cold, a place for stargazing and assignments, nothing more. But to you, it had become something sacred. Something lonely.

You were not new to Hogwarts anymore. Three years had passed since your appointment as the new Astronomy professor, and the once-piercing sting of imposter syndrome had dulled into a low ache, like the phantom of a burn long healed. You’d grown into your role with grace—students liked you, colleagues were kind, and Dumbledore never failed to offer a gentle word or twinkle-eyed compliment when your eyes flickered with self-doubt.

But there was one figure—one shadowy constant in the castle—who remained as closed to you now as he had been on your very first day.

Severus Snape.

He had been polite—painfully, professionally polite—the first time you’d introduced yourself. You remembered that moment vividly. You’d reached out your hand, eyes searching his for some thread of warmth or recognition.

“I’m the new Astronomy professor,” you’d said, voice a little too eager, hoping to bridge the quiet chasm between you.

He had merely inclined his head, pale hand remaining folded in the sleeves of his robe. “Yes. I am aware,” he had replied. Then he had turned away.

And that was the beginning—and the end—of your first exchange.

Over the years, your attempts had grown in delicacy and restraint. You weren’t a fool; you knew his reputation, the whispers about his past, the guarded way he moved through the halls like a man always expecting danger. But he intrigued you in ways that made sleep elusive. It wasn’t just his mind—razor-sharp, quick, dangerous. It was the quiet melancholy in his eyes. The way his voice folded in on itself when he spoke of things that mattered. The rare, almost imperceptible softness that would sometimes pass over his features when he watched the students walking back from dinner—soft and gone in a second, like a star swallowed by dawn.

You wanted to know that man. That softness.

But he kept himself locked away from you—curt nods, glances that passed through you as if you were smoke. It hurt. And still… still, you found yourself watching him. Still, you found yourself making excuses to speak to him after staff meetings, lingering in the Great Hall in case he looked your way. He never did.

Sometimes, late at night, you would sit on the cold stone of your tower, your telescope forgotten, and wonder if you were insane. If you had simply projected your aching, lonely heart onto the nearest unreachable thing.

After all, that was what you did with stars, wasn’t it?

⸻

“Professor Snape,” you called, catching him just before he disappeared into the dungeon corridor after dinner. You held a small roll of parchment in your hands, heart beating far louder than you thought was reasonable.

He paused—but did not turn around. “Yes?” he said, voice as flat and unimpressed as ever.

You caught up to him, steps quick on the stone. “I… I’m sorry to bother you, but I found this old paper in the archives. It’s about the astrological impacts of potion-brewing during certain moon phases. I thought it might interest you.” You offered it to him, parchment slightly crinkled from how tightly you’d held it.

He stared at it for a moment. Then, slowly, he reached out and took it with the barest tip of his fingers. “Thank you,” he said stiffly. “If I have time, I’ll read it.”

You tried to catch his eyes—just once. “I—I thought maybe we could talk about it sometime. If you find it useful, I mean.”

Something in his jaw twitched. “I doubt I will,” he said, turning away with a sharp swish of his robes.

He left you standing there, heart clenched tight, the smell of damp stone and potion ingredients sharp in your throat.

You did not cry. Not yet. That would come later—alone, in the tower, when the stars blinked their cold light down at you and you could pretend they were blinking back in sympathy.

⸻

You stopped trying for a while. At least, you tried to stop trying.

You still said good morning to him when you passed in the halls. Still offered soft smiles during meetings, though they were never returned. Still watched his hands—so precise, so elegant—when he handled flasks and ingredients with impossible delicacy.

He never saw you looking.

Or maybe he did. And he just didn’t care.

The other professors noticed, of course. Minerva gave you a look now and then—gentle, but concerned. Sprout patted your hand at lunch one day, muttering something about how “some roots take longer to grow.” Only Dumbledore ever met your eyes without pity.

“Stars burn quietly,” he once said to you over tea. “And some things must fall into darkness before they shine.”

You didn’t know what that meant, exactly. But you smiled anyway.

Still, it was getting harder. The silence from Severus wasn’t neutral anymore. It had become almost purposeful, like a punishment. As if your very presence irritated him. As if your affections were an insect’s wings beating uselessly against his skin.

It was late November when it happened.

The corridor near the dungeons was cold, icy mist curling in from the outer archways. You were hurrying after him, coat wrapped tight, clutching another foolish hope in your chest.

You’d made a chart—a beautiful one, inked by hand—showing the correlation between planetary retrogrades and potion instability over three decades. A labor of love. A labor for him.

“Professor Snape!” you called.

He didn’t stop.

You reached him just as he pushed open the door to his classroom. “Wait—I just wanted to show you—”

And then it happened.

He turned. Fast. Cold.

“What is it now?” he snapped, eyes sharp as obsidian, voice low and venomous. “Another star chart? Another desperate excuse to engage in pointless conversation?”

You froze. The chart in your hands suddenly felt like lead.

“I—I just thought you might find it interesting—”

“I don’t,” he said, stepping closer, dark robes rippling with the movement. “I never do. I never have. You mistake professional civility for personal interest, and I am exhausted by it.”

You took a step back, heart crumbling in your chest.

“I don’t need your charts. I don’t want your insights. And I certainly don’t want your company.” His voice was like ice cracking across a frozen lake. “Stop following me. Stop looking at me like that. I will never—ever—love you.”

The chart slipped from your fingers, fluttering uselessly to the stone floor.

Silence fell. Not the silence of stars or snow or sleeping children, but the brutal, dead kind—the silence of something irrevocably broken.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

He stared at you for one more beat. Then he turned, stepped inside the classroom, and shut the door behind him with finality.

And you stood there, alone in the corridor, the cold settling deep in your bones, where no amount of starlight could ever reach.

⸻

You didn’t cry.

Not there. Not then. Not in the corridor with your chart strewn across the floor like the torn remnants of some childish fantasy. You simply picked it up—slowly, methodically, folding the parchment with trembling hands. You didn’t glance at his closed door. You didn’t look back.

You walked away.

Not toward your tower. Not toward the Great Hall, where too many familiar eyes might read your face like an open wound. You walked aimlessly, letting the cold castle walls swallow you, winding through forgotten staircases and quiet alcoves. Eventually, you found an abandoned classroom—dusty and dark—and sat on the floor with your coat still on.

Only then did the tears come.

They were not dramatic. They were not loud. They were the kind of tears that hurt more because they were silent—salt burning the rims of your eyes, throat clenched around sobs that refused to rise.

You cried for yourself, for your hope, for every soft, invisible way you had reached for a man who had only ever turned his back. You cried for the affection you had offered him freely, only to have it thrown at your feet like something unclean.

And then—finally—you were empty.

You wiped your face on your sleeve, stood, and made your way back to your tower.

That night, you taught your fourth-year class with a quiet smile and careful voice. You pointed at constellations and asked thoughtful questions, and none of your students saw the ghost of pain behind your eyes.

You were done.

You didn’t speak to him again.

⸻

It was subtle at first.

The empty seat beside him in staff meetings—once something you quietly maneuvered toward—was no longer occupied by you. You sat beside Professor Flitwick instead, nodding politely, keeping your eyes on your hands or your tea.

He noticed. Of course he did. Snape noticed everything.

But he told himself it was a relief.

When you passed in the corridors now, you didn’t call his name. You didn’t try to catch his eye. You didn’t offer him papers, research, or suggestions. You didn’t offer him anything.

You had vanished from his immediate life—but not from the castle. And that, somehow, made your absence sharper.

He still saw you, of course. Occasionally, from across the Great Hall. Your laugh was quieter now. Your eyes always looked a little tired. You had never been loud—but now, you were muted, like parchment left too long in the sun.

He tried to tell himself he had done the right thing. That he had been merciful. That it was better this way—for you, for him. He was not capable of love. He knew that. He had tried once, and it had destroyed everything.

You didn’t deserve to be burned by his ruinous heart.

Still, the silence between you had grown cold, and it haunted him in strange ways.

⸻

It began, as most of his regret did, in the quiet hours of the night.

The dungeon walls offered no stars—no windows—but he found himself wondering what the sky looked like. Wondered if you were awake, in your tower, the moonlight touching your face the way he never had the right to do.

He remembered things he had tried to forget. The way your voice softened when you spoke to students. The way you lingered near him with hopeful eyes, always so careful, so gentle, as though you were afraid he might shatter if you were too bold.

The pain in your face that day in the corridor—it returned to him unbidden. Not dramatic. Not pleading. Just… hurt. Quietly, terribly hurt.

He had meant to crush your hope so thoroughly that it never rose again. And he had. You had left him entirely alone.

But instead of feeling triumphant in his solitude, he began to feel… hollow.

He told himself it was for the best. That he had spared you.

But he had seen the change in you. How you no longer lingered after meals. How you slipped out of staff rooms as if trying not to be noticed. How you only spoke when spoken to, and even then, only with polite distance.

He found himself listening for your laughter—and hating himself when it did not come.

He told himself he had no right to want it.

⸻

By January, he was waking up with your name on his tongue. Not aloud. Never aloud. But in the silence of his chambers, with the fire dying low, he would close his eyes and see the way you had once looked at him.

Like he was someone worth reaching for.

He hadn’t been looked at that way in decades. Not since Lily.

And yet he had spit it back at you—like venom. He had made you small. He had meant to make you small.

But you hadn’t deserved it.

The truth crept in slowly. It always did with him. Regret was not a flash—it was a tide, pulling at the ankles, dragging him out to sea.

He had hurt you. He had wounded something soft and brave.

And worst of all?

You had let go.

He hadn’t expected that. He’d expected you to keep trying. To hover. To hope.

But you hadn’t.

And now he missed you.

He missed your voice. Your smile. The little jokes you used to make, barely audible, after dull meetings. The way you would offer him a paper or ask his thoughts, even when he never asked for yours.

He missed being wanted.

He missed you.

And he knew—perhaps for the first time—that he had made a mistake.

⸻

It was late February when he passed by your tower on a walk he told himself was aimless.

There was snow on the rooftops, and the night was clear, the sky littered with stars. From the ground, he could see the soft glow of candlelight through your tower’s window. A gentle halo. You were working late, as always.

And he stood there, looking up, as if the stars could tell him what to do.

He wanted to knock. To say something. Anything.

But what was there to say?

I’m sorry I shattered your heart because I didn’t know how to handle being loved.

I’m sorry I pushed you away because I was afraid I might need you.

I regret it. All of it.

But he didn’t climb the tower.

He turned away, the snow crunching beneath his boots.

Even then—his cowardice was stronger than his longing.

But regret had settled in him now, deep and permanent.

And he would carry it—like all the rest—for the rest of his days.

⸻

March came in cold, with winds that whispered through the corridors like memories trying to be forgotten. Severus went about his days with quiet efficiency, teaching his lessons, marking essays, giving detentions, correcting potions brewed too weak or too strong. On the surface, nothing had changed.

But inside—where the silence grew louder every day—something had begun to shift.

He found himself pausing at staircases he never used, listening for the soft echo of your voice. He watched the staff room door more than he looked at the papers in his hands. He lingered longer in the Great Hall, nursing his tea long after everyone else had left, wondering if he might catch even the tail end of your presence.

But you never lingered. You didn’t look for him anymore.

You had become exactly what he’d asked for: distant. Unreachable.

And it was slowly, bitterly killing him.

He realized it one night, weeks after his outburst, when he awoke from a dream of you laughing in moonlight, only to find himself alone and cold in his dungeon quarters. His chest felt hollow, like something had been scraped out of him. He sat in the dark for a long time, elbows on his knees, hands threaded in his hair.

And he said it aloud—just once, to the empty room:

“I miss you.”

The words, soft and broken, were swallowed by the stone.

⸻

You noticed the change eventually.

It began with glances—small, stolen things. At meals. In meetings. In corridors.

Severus Snape, the man who had spent years never once truly looking at you, had started to turn his eyes toward you when he thought you wouldn’t notice.

But you did.

You noticed how he would hesitate near you. How his steps would slow when you passed. How, once, you caught him at the base of the Astronomy Tower late at night—his eyes lifting to your window before he turned and walked away.

You told yourself not to hope.

He had made it very clear what he thought of you. Of your feelings. Of your affection.

But it was harder now. The wounds were still tender, but the silence had become heavier. Not empty—but waiting.

You didn’t speak to him. Not out of spite, but because your heart had stitched itself together too clumsily to survive another break.

Still, you wondered.

Until the night he came to your tower.

—-

It was late.

You were alone with the stars, as always. The telescope was unused; your tea had gone cold hours ago. The tower glowed with low candlelight and the silver spill of moonlight across the stone floor.

When you heard the knock, soft and uncertain, your heart stilled.

You knew.

You stood slowly and crossed to the door, fingers trembling on the latch. When it opened, Severus stood there—his robes dark, his expression unreadable—but there was something in his eyes you had never seen before.

Not coldness. Not irritation.

Hesitation. Pain. And something raw and open, flickering just behind his usual mask.

“I… may I come in?” he asked, his voice unusually low, almost hoarse.

You stepped back silently, and he entered.

He stood in the center of the room, glancing at your desk, your books, the telescope, the view—anything but you.

“I wasn’t sure you would answer,” he said quietly.

You watched him for a long moment. “I almost didn’t.”

A nod. He accepted that.

The silence stretched between you like wire.

And then he said, “I’ve come to apologize.”

You didn’t speak.

He swallowed. “I was cruel. I meant to be. I wanted to drive you away, and I succeeded.”

Still, you said nothing. The pain was alive in you again, waiting. Watching.

“I thought I was doing the right thing,” he continued. “That I was sparing you from the burden of someone like me.”

“Burden,” you echoed softly, your voice thin with disbelief.

He looked at you finally. “I don’t believe myself capable of being loved. Not truly. Not… not without cost.”

Tears gathered at the edges of your eyes, hot and quiet. “You hurt me.”

“I know.”

“I cared for you. For years.”

“I know,” he said again, and something cracked in his voice this time.

“Why are you here now?” you asked, chest tight.

He took a breath like a man plunging into water. “Because I miss the sound of your voice. Because I find myself looking for you in every corridor, and hating myself when you’re not there. Because I pushed you away and all I’ve done since is regret it.”

You stared at him, silent.

He stepped closer.

“I didn’t think I could love anyone again,” he said, softer now. “But I was wrong.”

The air between you trembled.

“I love you,” he said.

Your breath caught. “You don’t have to say that just to—”

“I’m not,” he said firmly. “I don’t say things I don’t mean.”

You felt your walls shiver, crack. The old hurt still lived inside you, but beneath it—new warmth. Gentle, cautious hope.

“I don’t trust easily,” you whispered.

“I know.”

“I don’t forgive easily either.”

“I wouldn’t deserve it if you did.”

You looked up at him then, really looked—and saw not the cruel man from the corridor, but a man afraid of being seen. A man who had buried himself under years of pain and silence, and who was now standing in your tower, offering what little light he had.

He moved a step closer, slow, hesitant.

“May I?” he asked.

You didn’t nod.

You simply rose on your toes and kissed him.

It was soft, uncertain, and trembling—but it broke through everything. His hands found your waist like he’d been holding his breath for years. You touched his face, gentle, reverent, feeling the hollow ache that had once lived there.

You kissed him, and he kissed you like you were the only thing tethering him to the earth.

When you broke apart, your forehead resting against his, he whispered into your skin:

“I thought I was orbiting nothing. But it was always you.”

And this time—when you looked at him—you saw no walls. No cold.

Only stars.

⸻

[ms-snape]

Hi! I was wondering if you could write about young!Remus having a crush on the reader but she’s already dating Severus secretly? The marauders want to bully Severus more cause of it? I’m sorry for my english its not my native language lol

Title: What Others Don’t See

Warning: bullying (just mentioned and results, I don’t wanna write bullying scenes it makes me sad 😕)

Words count: 2500+

Masterlist

___

The castle was soft with autumn, shrouded in early mist and scattered with golden leaves that clung to boots and cloaks and drifted through open windows like wandering memories. Hogwarts in October was always Remus’s favorite—its silence felt kind, not lonely, and the flickering candlelight along the corridors didn’t expose things but rather softened them. He walked those halls like a shadow, quiet and observant, always halfway between his own thoughts and the world around him. And lately, it was her—Y/N—that filled the space between.

She wasn’t like the others—wasn’t like the loud Gryffindor girls who painted their lips in the mirror before breakfast, or the ones who tossed their hair and laughed too loudly in the corridors. No, she was quieter, but not shy. There was a grace to her that went unnoticed by most—how she tucked her hands into her sleeves when cold, how she never interrupted anyone even if they interrupted her, how she leaned forward ever so slightly when she was listening, like she was offering part of herself to whoever was speaking. She was a Gryffindor, of course. But she was always surrounded by books. But it wasn’t her cleverness that captured Remus—it was the way she seemed to exist in the world like she already understood its sorrow, and loved it anyway.

He noticed her in the smallest ways. The curve of her brow when she was puzzled. The ghost of a smile she gave to the librarian. The way she walked beside the Black Lake with her arms crossed against the wind, as if she were always a little colder than everyone else. Remus had never dared to call it love—what right did he have to love someone he hardly spoke to? But when he caught her eyes across the Great Hall and she smiled, even if it was just a polite smile given to anyone who looked her way, his heart lifted in a way that made him feel like he’d grown wings and was afraid to use them.

He kept it to himself, of course. Or tried to. There were notebooks under his bed with half-finished sentences that began with her name and trailed off into metaphors that embarrassed him to read back. He imagined her noticing him—not the way Sirius or James were noticed, with fanfare and noise—but gently, in a way that felt like a secret. He imagined her listening when he spoke in class. He imagined her smiling at his jokes. He imagined what it would feel like to walk beside her, not just behind her, for once.

But dreams like that were dangerous, especially for someone like him.

⸻

“Moony’s at it again,” Sirius said one evening, his voice casual as he tossed a Chocolate Frog wrapper into the fire. The Gryffindor common room crackled around them, warm and bright, but Remus sat curled on the edge of an armchair, pretending to read while he stole glances at her across the room. She was seated near the tall windows, bathed in twilight, completely unaware of the boy across the room who was memorizing every line of her profile.

“I’m not,” Remus said flatly, not looking up from the page he hadn’t turned in fifteen minutes.

“You are,” James confirmed, sprawled across the rug with his Potions essay forgotten beside him. “Honestly, Moony, you pine harder than a bloody forest. Just tell her.”

“Tell her what?” Remus asked, exasperated, his voice a little too sharp.

“That you fancy her,” Peter offered with a grin. “Merlin, it’s not like it’s hard to guess.”

Remus closed the book with deliberate slowness. “It’s not that simple.”

Sirius rolled his eyes and leaned forward, his expression unusually sincere. “Why not? You’re clever. You’re kind. You’ve got that whole quiet, brooding mystery thing going for you. Girls love that. If it weren’t for me, I’d be in love with you myself.”

“Please don’t,” Remus muttered, but the ghost of a smile flickered on his lips.

James leaned in. “Look, if you don’t say something, someone else will. Don’t let her slip past you because you’re scared.”

“I’m not scared,” Remus said softly.

But of course, he was. He always had been. Scared of rejection, scared of being known too deeply, scared that if she looked too close, she’d see what he really was—that no matter how clever or kind or soft-spoken he might be, underneath it all he was a monster tied to the moon, always one bad night away from hurting someone.

Still, that night in the dormitory, he lay awake staring up at the velvet canopy of his bed, imagining what it would feel like to finally tell her. To say what had built up inside him for months. Perhaps she would laugh. Or be kind in the way she always was, and let him down gently. Or perhaps, just perhaps, she might smile in that private way she did when reading her favorite passages, and say she had noticed him too.

That hope—small and ridiculous—clung to him like dew clings to the morning grass.

⸻

The lake was still the next day, its surface smooth as polished stone beneath the cloudy sky. Trees stood bare and skeletal at the edges of the grounds, their branches creaking faintly in the wind. She was waiting by the willow tree, as she often did after lunch, a book on her lap and her robes tucked beneath her knees. She looked serene there, almost unreal, like something conjured by the landscape itself.

Remus approached slowly, heart thudding a little too fast, the words he had practiced so many times unraveling before he could remember them.

When she looked up and saw him, her expression brightened—pleasantly surprised, but not startled.

“Remus,” she said warmly. “Hi.”

Her voice always did strange things to his chest.

“Hi,” he replied, barely above a whisper. He gestured to the space beside her. “May I?”

“Of course.”

He sat down carefully, not too close, nervous that even their robes might brush. For a moment, he just looked out at the lake, struggling to find the courage that had seemed so certain in the common room the night before.

“I’ve wanted to talk to you,” he said slowly, “for a while now.”

She turned to him, eyebrows raised slightly.

“I know we don’t really know each other,” he continued, voice low, “not well, anyway. But I’ve always admired you. You’re… brilliant. And kind. And I suppose I’ve always thought there was something very rare about you. Like you saw the world a bit differently.”

He didn’t look at her now. Couldn’t. The silence stretched long, filled only by the gentle rustle of leaves.

“I like you,” he finally said. “And I just—I needed you to know that.”

Another pause.

When she finally spoke, her voice was so gentle it nearly broke him.

“Remus…” she said softly, and already he felt the sting behind his ribs. “That’s… that’s very kind. And I mean it when I say I’m flattered. I really am. You’re… lovely. But…”

That “but” was a death sentence.

“I’m already… with someone,” she admitted, lowering her eyes.

He didn’t breathe. “Oh,” he managed, after a moment. “I… I didn’t realize.”

“It’s not public. We’ve kept it quiet,” she said, her fingers twisting in her lap. “It’s… complicated.”

“Can I ask who?”

She hesitated. And that hesitation told him everything, even before she spoke.

“Severus...”

The name rang out like a slap. Remus blinked once, twice. Thought he had misheard.

“Snape?” he repeated, incredulous.

Her voice was nearly apologetic. “He’s not what people think he is. He’s… different with me. I know how it looks. But… I care about him.”

The pain hit him slow, like cold water soaking through wool—seeping, sinking, impossible to shake off. He stared at the ground, watched an ant crawl across a dead leaf, and tried not to look like something in him had just been quietly destroyed.

“I see,” he said, too calmly.

“I’m sorry,” she added quickly. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I just—wanted to be honest.”

He nodded, forcing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “No, thank you. I appreciate it.”

And then he stood. Walked away.

The wind picked up, tugging at his robes, and the lake remained still as glass behind him. He didn’t look back.

⸻

He didn’t speak for the rest of the afternoon. In the common room that evening, he sat with a book open in his lap but read nothing. The voices around him were distant, like echoes in another room. James was the first to notice.

“She said no?” he asked gently, crouching beside him.

Remus nodded, eyes fixed on a point far away.

“Someone else?” Sirius asked.

Another nod.

“Who?” James pressed.

And Remus, after a long moment, replied, “Snape.”

There was silence then. Sirius stiffened. James’s face darkened. Peter’s jaw dropped.

But Remus was already gone—lost in a space within himself where the only sound was the wind off the lake and the words she had spoken so softly: “I care about him.”

“She’s made a mistake,” Sirius said darkly, standing.

“Snape’s a creep,” James muttered. “He doesn’t deserve someone like her.”

Remus barely heard them.

They didn’t wait for him to respond. They were already moving, fast and angry, and he didn’t follow. Didn’t notice when they slipped out the portrait hole.

⸻

Severus Snape returned to the Slytherin common room that evening with a cut lip and bruised ribs, nursing his wounds in silence. He didn’t speak of it. He rarely did. But in the solitude of his dormitory, he wondered—not for the first time—if anything in his life could ever remain untouched.

⸻

Remus sat alone that night at the windowsill of the dormitory, looking out over the lake where the leaves were falling like forgotten promises. The full moon was only days away. And for the first time in years, he wished it would come early.

At least the pain of the change would make sense.

⸻

The dungeons always hummed with cold, but that evening the chill seemed to press deeper, biting through the fabric of Severus’s robes, crawling into the bruises that colored his ribs, the scrape that split his lip, the dull ache behind his eyes where a hex had struck him hard. He stood in front of the tall, cracked mirror in the boys’ lavatory, dabbing at the corner of his mouth with a bloodied handkerchief, his breath slow and shallow, careful not to stretch the muscles along his side. There was always pain in his life, always humiliation—but this felt different. It wasn’t born from being called names in corridors or from defensive hexes flung across classrooms. This was personal.

James Potter’s fist. Sirius Black’s wand. And behind it all, the bitter taste of her name—the only soft thing in his life now being used like a weapon to beat him back into the shadows he’d worked so hard to crawl out of.

He hadn’t told her. He didn’t intend to. What good would it do? What would it change?

The truth, he’d learned long ago, only made things worse.

⸻

It was late—past curfew—when she found him.

Y/N had waited for him near the library for nearly an hour, sat cross-legged on the rug in the Astronomy Tower until her fingers were numb from the wind, and finally, worried and restless, made her way down to the Slytherin common room through hidden passages she only knew because he had shown her.

She didn’t knock.

The heavy door creaked open on its own under her hand, the torches flickering against the green-and-silver stone. And there he was—leaning over a sink, alone, his black school robes undone and hanging from his narrow frame, stained with dirt and something darker.

At first, he didn’t hear her. He was too focused on the slow, painful movements of cleaning the mess without magic, almost as if he didn’t trust his wand not to betray him too.

Then her voice broke the silence, sharper than it had ever been.

“Severus.”

He flinched. Visibly. His hand froze mid-air, and he slowly turned, face still partially shadowed.

And her breath caught.

His eye was swollen, his lip split clean through, and there was a bruise blooming along his jaw like purple ink spilled across parchment. One sleeve of his shirt was torn, exposing a deep scrape along his shoulder.

“Who did this to you?” she demanded, stepping forward.

“It’s nothing—” he began quickly, lowering his gaze. “I just… slipped. On the stairwell. Filch hasn’t fixed the loose stone on the—”

“Don’t lie to me.”

Her voice cracked—not with anger, but with something rawer. She reached for his chin, lifting it gently with her fingertips, forcing him to look at her fully. He winced but didn’t pull away.

“Severus,” she whispered. “Tell me who did this.”

He held her gaze for a long moment, torn. And for a second, she saw it—the calculation behind his eyes, the old, worn instinct to hide everything, to swallow it and bury it somewhere it could never be used against him.

But this wasn’t just about pride anymore. Not when it involved her.

So he told the truth.

“Potter and Black.”

Her expression didn’t shift immediately. She just stared at him, as if her mind needed a moment to translate the words.

Then slowly, her lips parted in disbelief. “They attacked you?”

He nodded once, almost imperceptibly.

“Why?” Her voice cracked again. “Why would they—?”

He looked away. “Because of you…. Of us”

The silence stretched like a wire between them.

“Remus told them,” she said quietly, putting the pieces together. “He told them, didn’t he?”

Severus didn’t answer. But he didn’t have to.

Without another word, she turned and stormed from the room, her robe flaring behind her like a banner of war.

⸻

Remus had barely slept since the day by the lake. Every hour since her rejection had been fogged with quiet grief—long stretches of silence he couldn’t explain, followed by brief, biting flashes of memory: her eyes when she said Snape, her gentle voice, the terrible, lingering calmness with which she apologized.

But nothing—nothing—prepared him for the sound of her footsteps storming into the common room.

He looked up from his chair by the fireplace just in time to see her approach, eyes wild, voice low and venomous.

“You knew.”

He blinked. “What?”

She didn’t repeat herself. “You knew what they did to him, didn’t you?”

“Wait, what—who?” he asked, standing now, heart hammering as she advanced.

“Severus. Your friends beat him bloody. Over me.” Her voice wavered, filled with fury and something close to heartbreak.

Remus paled. “What—no, no, I didn’t know—” His mouth was dry. “They wouldn’t—James and Sirius wouldn’t do something like—”

“He has bruises all over him,” she spat. “A split lip, hex marks. Don’t lie to me, Remus.”

“I’m not lying.” He stepped closer, horrified. “I swear to you, I had no idea. I would never have wanted that. I—I didn’t think they’d—” He trailed off, jaw tightening. “I’ll handle it.”

But she was already walking away.

Remus didn’t hesitate.

He found James and Sirius in the boys’ dormitory, laughing about something, lounging across their beds like nothing had happened. When he burst in, the expression on his face froze the room.

“You attacked him?” Remus asked, voice low, shaking.

Sirius glanced at James, then back at Remus, shrugging. “We just gave him a little scare.”

“A scare?” Remus repeated, stunned. “He’s injured. You beat him up.”

James stood now, expression souring. “He deserved it. He’s a snake, Moony. He doesn’t belong with her.”

“You don’t get to decide who she belongs with,” Remus shot back. “You don’t get to use me as an excuse to assault someone. That’s not loyalty, that’s cruelty.”

Sirius’s face hardened. “He’s dangerous.”

Remus shook his head. “So are we.”

He turned away, disgusted.

And for the first time in weeks, his anger finally burned hotter than his heartbreak.

⸻

It was late by the time Y/N returned to the dungeons, her skin chilled from the stone-cold air and the heat of her own fury. Severus was still sitting by the fire in the common room, his robe wrapped around him, book unopened in his lap.

When she entered, he looked up—and his whole posture shifted. As if her presence alone softened him.

She crossed the room slowly, and then knelt in front of him, taking his hands in hers.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

“Don’t,” he murmured. “It’s not your fault.”

Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them back. “You don’t have to protect me from this. Not when it’s already hurt you.”

“I would take worse,” he said simply, “if it meant keeping you.”

Her throat tightened. She leaned forward, pressing her forehead gently to his, her hands still cradling his. The fire flickered beside them, throwing gold shadows across their faces.

“I hate that they see you the way they do,” she whispered. “I wish they could see what I see.”

He was silent for a long time, eyes closed, resting in her closeness.

“Let them hate me,” he said softly. “As long as you don’t.”

“I could never,” she breathed. “Never.”

And in that moment—quiet, hidden, small—the world faded. The bruises didn’t matter. The pain, the fear, the judgment of others—it all blurred in the warmth of her touch, in the way her thumb brushed the back of his hand like she was tracing something sacred.

She leaned in and kissed him—softly, reverently, as if to tell his broken skin it was still worth loving.

And he believed her.

Even just for a moment.

⸻

[ms-snape]

Hiiii, love!

How are you? I just binged read all your sev writing and I saw you were taking requests so I was wondering if you could make a hurt/comfort fic with Sev and his lovely wife (us lol) where she fainted in his arms because she was sick and he took care of her???

I'm currently sick and could use Sev to take care of me...

Love your work, btw :)

Title: Little Things

Warning: sick reader

Word count: 1000+

Masterlist

___

The morning had started as so many others did in Spinner's End: quietly, slowly, with the soft creak of floorboards beneath socked feet and the kettle whistling on the stove.

You were in the kitchen, still in your dressing gown, your hair loosely pinned back, sleeves rolled up to your elbows. The late winter sunlight filtered through the frosted windows, casting sleepy gold across the table where a few herbs lay drying on a tea towel — remnants of last night’s brewing. A warm, nutty scent lingered from the porridge Severus had made earlier.

It was a peaceful morning, though your body was already protesting in subtle ways. A dull ache in your legs, the faintest pressure behind your eyes. A kind of heaviness that clung to your shoulders.

You’d been feeling off for a day or two — but told yourself it was nothing. Just the cold weather. Just tiredness. Just… one of those things.

Severus had been watching you more than usual. He’d tried to be subtle about it — peering over his tea as you stood by the stove, the occasional glance from behind his book — but you’d caught him more than once.

“You’ve done enough,” he said eventually, his voice even but quiet, almost like he didn’t want to interrupt the stillness. “Go sit down.”

“I’m fine,” you murmured. “Just finishing these dishes.”

You didn’t see him frown, but you heard the chair shift, heard the quiet creak as he stood.

He was already halfway across the kitchen when it happened.

The plate slipped from your fingers first, landing in the sink with a clatter. You gasped softly, hand bracing on the edge of the counter.

Then the wave came — a sudden, rushing heat in your face, a strange pressure in your ears. The world tilted sharply.

And then blackness.

⸻

He caught you before you hit the ground.

Your body had crumpled with no warning, and his arms were around you instantly, almost violently fast for someone who moved so deliberately in every other aspect of life.

He lowered you to the floor carefully, his long fingers trembling slightly as they pressed to your cheek, your throat, your wrist. Your skin was too warm.

He didn’t panic. Not in the way most people would. But he was quiet — deadly quiet — and that meant far more.

“Come back to me,” he muttered under his breath, already lifting you again, already carrying you from the kitchen. “Come on, love…”

You didn’t hear him. Your head lolled against his chest.

He took you to bed, laying you down with the kind of tenderness usually reserved for spellbooks older than the castle itself. His hands lingered longer than necessary — checking, adjusting, smoothing the blanket over your chest.

Then the work began.

⸻

Within the hour, the bedroom had transformed into something like a quiet infirmary.

The fire in the hearth was roaring gently. Two candles on the nightstand cast flickering light against the glass bottles lined up beside them — fever reducer, hydration tonic, something to settle your stomach, something for the aching.

Severus moved without hurry, but with precision. He was used to treating others, but rarely you — and never like this.

He checked your temperature with the back of his hand first, then confirmed it with a charm. Still high. He conjured a damp cloth and laid it gently across your brow.

You stirred once, groaning softly, but didn’t wake.

He sat beside you in the chair, robes slightly disheveled, hair falling across his cheek as he leaned forward, watching every breath you took.

⸻

When you opened your eyes again, the room was dim. Candlelight flickered low. The warmth of the blanket was heavy on your chest, and your throat was dry, but your head was clearer.

And he was there.

Still in the same chair. Still watching.

“You’re awake,” he said, his voice a quiet mix of relief and exhaustion. “Don’t move. Just breathe.”

You blinked slowly, struggling to sit up, but his hand was already on your shoulder, easing you gently back down.

“What happened?” you whispered, throat rough.

“You fainted,” he said. “You’ve had a fever for at least a day. You didn’t tell me.”

You closed your eyes. “I thought it would pass.”

“It didn’t.” He leaned forward again, brushing your hair back. “Let me take care of it now.”

You gave him the smallest nod.

He moved around the room with quiet efficiency, and for the next hour, you let him take over.

⸻

First came the water — lukewarm, with a hint of lemon and honey, held steady as he tilted the cup to your lips. His fingers brushed yours briefly as you took it, and you saw something flicker in his expression — worry he hadn’t quite managed to hide.

Then the potion — brewed to exacting standards, of course, and cooled to the perfect temperature. He held the spoon for you, gently urging you on with soft, patient words.

“There’s a cooling charm on the pillows,” he told you when he noticed your hands shifting restlessly. “And I’ve spelled the blanket to adjust with your body temperature.”

You let out the smallest, dry laugh. “Of course you have.”

He arched an eyebrow but said nothing, reaching for the cloth again to press against your forehead.

Then came the quiet part. The part where time blurred into the soft sounds of the fire, and the occasional rustle of paper as he read beside you. You must have dozed, because when you opened your eyes again, he was at your side with a bowl in his hands.

“You need to eat,” he said simply, setting the tray on the edge of the bed.

It was soup. Soft, simple, homemade. Likely something he’d thrown together in the kitchen while keeping an ear tuned to your breathing. A piece of toast, lightly buttered, sat beside it.

You gave him a look. “You cooked.”

He gave a long-suffering sigh. “You’re unwell. Not deaf.”

You smiled sleepily. “It’s just… sweet.”

“It’s food,” he corrected, but the smallest flush crept into his face, and you knew better.

He helped you sit up, supported your back with pillows, and held the bowl steady when your hands trembled. He didn’t comment — just fed you with the patience of a man who had waited for you to wake up for hours, and would gladly do it again if he had to.

⸻

Later that night, after more potions, more water, and another cool cloth across your forehead, you began to settle.

He sat beside you, no longer in the chair, but on the bed, turned sideways, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle. One hand rested lightly on your knee above the blankets. The other toyed absently with the edge of your pillow, as if grounding himself there.

You were mostly asleep when you heard him speak again, low and careful:

“Don’t do that to me again.”

You opened your eyes just enough to see him looking down, not at you.

“I won’t,” you murmured. “I’m sorry.”

He nodded once, but didn’t answer. Just stayed there, beside you, steady and solid — the same way he always had. You shifted closer, and he didn’t stop you.

His hand found yours again, fingers lacing through gently, firmly.

He didn’t say I love you. Not tonight.

But he didn’t need to.

He had already said it — in soup and potions, in warmed blankets and midnight tea, in sitting still through hours of your sleep without ever once leaving the room.

In all the little things.

⸻

[ms-snape]

I love e your works

Can you write a snape x reader in which snape is young , in 20s and the reader is his classmate in hogwarts, who is back after few years after her higher education and yes snape pretends to forgetting her and she is heartbroken

Then snape convinces her when alone and just fluff kiss and hug or more

Title: Forget Me Not

Warning: Angst

Words Count: 2900+

Masterlist

⸻

The castle had not changed.

That was the first cruelty.

As the carriage wound up the familiar path through the grounds, beneath the swollen twilight sky, the shape of Hogwarts began to rise from the dusk like a dream called back to life. The towers still loomed like weary sentinels; the windows still glittered with enchanted warmth; the lake still stretched like a dark, unwaking memory at the castle’s feet. Somewhere in the forest, unseen and ageless, the wind stirred the leaves, and the scent of moss and ash swept through the air like a breath from the past.

But it was not the castle that had changed.

It was you.

You had not returned here since your graduation. Since you had stepped off the platform at Hogsmeade Station, a box of letters tucked under your arm, your robes too tight across the chest from months of anxiety, your heart straining with things unsaid. You had left that summer for further magical education in France, and after that, the continent. Years had passed in study, in translation, in lectures given beneath glittering chandeliers and across silent marble halls, where no one ever asked about the boy who never said goodbye.

It had been a quiet, self-constructed exile. The sort of escape that pretends to be progress.

And now here you were again—summoned not as a student, but as a scholar. Invited back to Hogwarts by Professor McGonagall herself to teach a short seminar series on the application of complex, post-classical enchantment theory. It was an honor. A privilege. The type of invitation that would have once made your younger self dizzy with pride.

And yet, pride was not what your heart stirred with as you stepped out of the carriage.

It was dread.

Because you knew he was here.

Severus Snape.

A name you no longer said aloud. A name you hadn’t dared whisper in years. And yet, no matter how many countries you had wandered, how many libraries you had lost yourself in, his name had remained—folded carefully between your ribs like a letter never sent.

—

You saw him on your first evening back.

The Great Hall was exactly as you remembered: ceilings enchanted to mirror the sky, long house tables crowded with students in black robes, laughter and echoing voices rising into the rafters. And at the head table—there he was.

Severus.

Older than he’d been, of course. He was in his early twenties now—still young by professorial standards, though his posture gave the illusion of age. His hair, long and dark as ever, framed his pale face like an oil painting caught in too much shadow. He wore black robes, high-collared and severe. His hands were still long-fingered, pale as parchment, resting on the table as if touching nothing in the world could ever truly involve him.

You stared. And waited.

Your name was announced as a visiting scholar. McGonagall stood, gave a brief but glowing introduction, and motioned for you to acknowledge the students. You rose, nodded, offered the smallest, most professional smile.

You looked at him again.

And he looked away.

Not abruptly. Not dramatically. Just… without seeing you. As if your presence meant no more than the dust drifting through the enchanted candlelight.

No flicker of recognition. No twitch of the mouth. No tension of the brow.

He pretended, so completely, not to remember you.

⸻

You spent the first night in your guest quarters sitting by the fire, staring into the embers, remembering things you had buried so carefully you’d forgotten where they had been hidden.

You remembered his voice—not the voice the students now heard, cold and clipped and exacting—but the voice he had once spoken to you with. Quiet. Rough-edged. Unpracticed, like language was something he mistrusted, but used anyway. A voice that had once asked, without asking, to be understood.

And more than anything, you remembered the first time you had heard it.

⸻

Second Year, Hogwarts Library, Rainy Autumn Afternoon

You had been new to the library that year. The freedom to explore it unsupervised was still thrilling, like trespassing into some ancient place of worship. Your ink had spilled in your satchel that morning, and your fingers were stained blue from trying to blot your Charms notes dry. You had been searching for a book on silencing spells—Practical Defense Techniques for Subtle Magic, you think it was—and you’d wandered farther than you meant to.

There, in the farthest corner, in the dustiest aisle, you saw him.

A boy, thin and pale, knees drawn up into his chair, head bowed low over a book of something thick and grim-looking. His black hair hung like a curtain between him and the rest of the world. He was the sort of figure that didn’t invite attention. But you had stopped anyway.

He had glanced up, eyes narrowing as if expecting mockery, or intrusion. His hand hovered protectively over the book’s spine, as though he feared you might tear it from him.

“I’m sorry,” you said softly. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

He didn’t reply. Just watched you with cautious, black eyes, as if calculating how long you’d stare before turning away.

“I’m looking for something on advanced silencing charms,” you offered awkwardly, as if the reason might permit your presence.

He had stared a moment longer, then looked toward the third shelf, second row.

“There,” he said. “Dark green binding. Author’s name is Yelena Frost.”

His voice was low. Precise.

You thanked him and retrieved it.

You didn’t know why you lingered. Perhaps it was curiosity. Perhaps it was the way his hand moved across the page—slow, reverent. Or perhaps it was the loneliness. You saw it, even then, even through the way he held himself like a barrier. Something about him called to something in you.

“What are you reading?” you asked.

He didn’t look up. “Nothing useful.”

The next time you saw him there, he did not acknowledge you. But the time after that, he nodded once when you approached.

A week later, you found a note tucked into a book you borrowed from that same shelf. The handwriting was sharp, exact. Frost’s theory on vocal dampening is flawed. Try Belgrave instead.

You smiled.

⸻

Present Day

The morning after your arrival, you passed him in the corridor near the Potions wing. He was walking in the opposite direction, his robes brushing the stone floor with familiar precision. You stopped, unsure whether to speak.

He didn’t.

He looked past you. As if you were part of the wall.

The emptiness struck with force.

You had known it was a possibility. He had always been guarded, always reluctant to let anyone close. But this? This willful erasure? This dismissal, as though your shared years had never happened?

It cut deeper than silence.

⸻

Seventh Year

An Empty Greenhouse, Early Spring

You’d been sent to retrieve ingredients for a NEWT-level potion. He had already been there, sleeves rolled to the elbow, his hands coated in crushed belladonna petals. The sunlight cast shadows against the high glass windows, turning his face to pale angles.

“I didn’t expect anyone else,” he murmured.

“Neither did I,” you had replied.

He hadn’t looked at you directly, but his voice, when it came again, had been quieter. “You’ll do well. After this.”

“I don’t know that yet.”

“You will,” he said. “You always wanted to leave this place. You don’t belong here.”

“And you do?”

He didn’t answer.

You watched him working, precise and steady, and wished you could say something real. Something that would draw him out, open him like a book and let you read all the things he would never say aloud.

But you didn’t.

⸻

Present Day

You couldn’t stand it anymore.

One evening, after dinner, you followed him from the Great Hall, heart pounding with shame and hope. He was halfway down the corridor when you spoke.

“Severus.”

He stopped. His shoulders stiffened—but he did not turn.

You stepped closer, quiet.

“Do you not remember me?”

The silence stretched like winter between you.

Then, finally, his voice came. Cold. Flat. “I remember many people.”

You waited. But there was no more.

He walked away without looking back.

⸻

You left Hogwarts before your final seminar ended.

The official reason was professional obligation—an opportunity arose that you couldn’t refuse. McGonagall accepted it with her usual calm understanding.

But the truth? The truth was that there was no air left in that castle. Not for you. Not with him turning away at every corridor, passing by without a single flicker of recognition. You could not bear to walk those halls one more time knowing the boy you once knew—the one who had scribbled notes into the margins of your books, who had watched you like you were the only thing that might make him stay in this world—was now a man who pretended you had never existed.

⸻

You never returned.

You never wrote. Neither did he.

But sometimes, in moments between dreams and waking, you found yourself back in that quiet library aisle, the air thick with dust and parchment, his eyes watching you with wary curiosity. And sometimes, in those dreams, he still remembered your name.

And in those dreams, you never had to ask if he had forgotten.

⸻

It had been three years since you had last walked the halls of Hogwarts.

Three years since you’d taken the train away from the castle without looking back, your heart heavy with the kind of silence that cannot be broken, only carried. The seasons had come and gone in the world beyond—papers published, lectures delivered, accolades earned. You had surrounded yourself with purpose, with motion, with intellect. But no matter how many miles or years you placed between yourself and that memory, the truth remained immutable.

You had loved him.

And he had erased you.

⸻

When Albus Dumbledore’s letter arrived, it came folded in a delicate, aging hand, ink slightly smudged in places, as though written during a long, meandering evening in candlelight. He invited you to dinner. A small, informal gathering of minds, he wrote. Nothing more. Just a few familiar faces. An evening of laughter, reflection, and company.

It was signed, as always, in that peculiar looping flourish: Yours in light and shadow, A. Dumbledore.

You almost declined.

You nearly folded the letter into the fireplace that same evening. But your hand had paused over the flames. And after three days of letting it sit on your writing desk, you’d penned your response with careful detachment: Yes. I will attend.

You told yourself it meant nothing.

But that wasn’t quite true, was it?

⸻

The castle hadn’t changed. Not in any meaningful way. The stones still whispered beneath your footsteps. The portraits still leaned out of their frames, craning curiously as you passed. Somewhere deep in the dungeons, you imagined a cauldron boiling slowly, the scent of crushed root and scorched hair rising like a memory.

It was snowing that evening, the flakes catching in your hair as you made your way to the small, private chamber Dumbledore had prepared—a warm, circular room tucked between towers, lit by floating orbs of firelight and cluttered with shelves that smelled of lemon drops and must.

There were only five guests.

You recognized Minerva immediately, her features as sharp and noble as ever, though her eyes softened the moment she saw you. She took your hand without words. Nearby, Filius Flitwick and Pomona Sprout shared a bottle of elf-made wine, laughing quietly over some long-forgotten mishap involving a runaway puffapod. And at the far side of the room, standing with one hand curled around a glass of something dark, stood the man you had once known too deeply.

Severus.

He was older now. Not aged—he had not yet reached thirty—but something about him had deepened. His presence, perhaps. His stillness. His face had thinned further, eyes set into their shadows like forgotten constellations, and the line of his mouth was drawn tighter than you remembered. But it was him.

Unmistakably.

Your stomach tightened.

You stood motionless at the door, uncertain whether to go forward or turn away. He had not yet seen you—was looking into the fire, jaw set in that quiet, inward expression he wore like armor. You could have slipped away. You could have spared yourself.

But just then, he turned.

And his eyes met yours.

There was no indifference this time. No coldness. No feigned forgetfulness.

He stilled—utterly—and for a single, breathless moment, you watched recognition bloom across his face like frost melting in sunlight. He looked at you as if you were a ghost summoned by guilt, some long-buried thought he had never dared revisit. His mouth parted slightly, not in shock, but something else. Something harder to name.

He did not look away.

And that, in itself, was different.

⸻

The evening passed in fragments.

Dumbledore welcomed you warmly, and the conversation drifted from teaching to magical theory to laughter and back again. Wine flowed. Candles burned low. But Severus remained mostly quiet, speaking only when asked, never once looking in your direction.

Until the others began to drift off, one by one.

Minerva was the last to leave. She gave you a meaningful look as she departed, as though to say you don’t have to stay—but if you do, let it be your choice.

When the door closed behind her, you found yourself alone with him. The fire cracked softly in the hearth. The snow had begun to fall harder against the windows. You could feel the weight of the moment pressing in from all sides.

He didn’t speak at first.

Just stood near the fire, the glass now forgotten on the mantle. His hands—those hands that once turned potion pages in silence beside you—were curled loosely at his sides.

And then, in a voice lower than you remembered, more threadbare, more human, he spoke.

“I was… cruel.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

“I remembered you the moment I saw you,” he said. “Of course I did.”

Still, you said nothing.

“I told myself it would be easier. That I had no right. That it would be kinder, in the end, to make you forget me.”

You turned away then, because his words were a blade turned inward, and your hands were already shaking.

“Kinder?” you asked quietly. “You think that was kindness?”

“No,” he said, and his voice cracked just slightly. “No. I think it was cowardice.”

There it was.

Not an excuse. Not a justification.

Just the truth.

You turned to him fully now. His eyes were unreadable, but no longer hidden. The armor was there, yes—but it was cracking. You could see it, in the way his jaw trembled, in the faint flush on his neck, in the twitch of his fingers like they wanted to reach out and didn’t dare.

“I spent years,” you said softly, “convincing myself I had imagined you. That I’d read something into our silence that was never there.”

“You didn’t.” The words left his mouth with surprising urgency. “You didn’t imagine it.”

And then, more quietly: “I remember every moment.”

He took one step toward you.

“I remember the library. The frost on the greenhouse glass. The margins of your notes. The way you said my name.”

Your throat ached.

“I thought you hated me,” you admitted, and your voice shook. “You looked at me like I was nothing. Like I’d never mattered at all.”

“I never hated you,” he said. “I hated myself. And seeing you again—brilliant, kind, everything I am not—I didn’t know how to bear it. I thought I could bury it. Pretend. It was… easier.”

You stared at him.

And for the first time in all the years you had known him, he looked afraid.

“Do you hate me now?” he asked.

And though the question was quiet, it hung in the air like a verdict waiting to be passed.

You looked at him—this man who had once hidden every soft part of himself behind shadows and silence; this man who had watched you walk away and said nothing; this man who was now, finally, standing before you with no mask, no lies, no shield.

And slowly, slowly, you shook your head.

“No,” you said. “But I wanted to.”

He closed his eyes. And for a moment, the world was still.

Then he opened them again. And said only, “I’m sorry.”

That was all.

No grand gestures. No desperate pleas.

Just a quiet, weary truth.

You took a breath. It tasted like snow and firelight. And pain. And maybe—just maybe—something else.

“Then,” you said, voice barely audible, “say my name.”

He swallowed.

“Y/N.”

It sounded like a prayer. Like the soft breaking of a spell.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t rush into his arms. But something loosened in your chest, like a knot pulled free. Forgiveness was not instantaneous. But it began there. In that moment. In the stillness between two people who had once loved in silence, and who might—just might—learn to speak again.

[ms-snape]

ok hear me out, herbology professor that is tied to plants in a special way and has a crush on snape. For example, whenever he's around flowers begin to just pop out of her head and he just raises a brow and is like "are you well?"

hes not necessarily oblivious, but he doesnt read into it much so while everyone else knows about readers crush, he just assumes shes nervous bc of who he his

Title: Language Of Flowers

Warning: Mone (I think)

Words Count: 1000+

Masterlist

___

In the quiet sanctuary of greenhouse four, where the sun slipped lazily through the slatted glass and vines wound like slow thoughts across the rafters, she bloomed.

Not metaphorically—though she often did that too—but literally. Petals. Stems. Soft blooms of green unfurling from her hairline, the curl of ivy gently exploring her collarbone, poppies yawning open behind her ear. The plants responded to her soul like they were attuned to the beat of it. A breath of joy could coax daisies from her fingertips. A moment of embarrassment? Snapdragons. And when she was flustered—truly, genuinely undone by a certain man’s presence—an entire crown of trembling forget-me-nots would erupt from her head like fireworks.

It had been happening since she was a girl, tied not to spell or hex, but to something older. Something elemental. The magic that pulsed in her bones had always drawn green things to her. She had learned, in time, to control it—to some degree. But emotions still slipped through the cracks. And he—he—was the most dangerous emotion of all.

Severus Snape. Potion Master. Head of Slytherin House. A man of obsidian silk and sharp edges, the kind of man who walked into a room and absorbed the light without trying. He was all logic, order, meticulous calculation. A man rooted so deeply in structure that the very chaos she represented must have been a bewilderment.

He visited the greenhouses only occasionally. Never without purpose. He was not the kind to idle among honeysuckle and buzzing bees. And every time he came—whether for a root, a venomous pod, or a clipped petal—he’d bring with him a low-pressure system that made the air electric around her.

Today had been no exception.

He’d stepped into greenhouse four with the same unreadable expression, coat swirling, and she, bent over a blooming mandrake sprout, had nearly screamed when violets burst along her temples like a halo.

She hadn’t looked up. She didn’t need to. His presence wrapped around her spine like mistletoe.

“Professor,” he said, with that voice like aged parchment and thunderclouds. Dry and endlessly deep.

She had tried to pretend she hadn’t heard the rustling of leaves unfurling in her hair.

But then his shadow crossed hers.

And, of course, he noticed. He always noticed.

“Are you… well?”

He didn’t sound concerned. Just vaguely disturbed. As though watching someone melt into leaves wasn’t entirely beyond the realm of his lived experience, but still fell somewhere between ‘odd’ and ‘a matter for Pomfrey.’

She gave a strangled sort of cough. “Fine. Perfectly. Allergies.”

The single dark brow he raised in response might as well have been a cruciatus curse.

He moved past her, mercifully, reaching for the small tray of moonwort she’d set aside. She turned away, digging her fingernails into her palms. She could feel roses blooming behind her ears. Big, romantic roses. The traitorous kind.

This was her curse. Or gift. Or both.

Every time he was near, something in her—something old and longing and unspoken—spilled into the world around her in green bursts. She had tried suppressants. Charms. Meditative rituals. But the plants didn’t care for logic. They cared for feeling.

And she had so many feelings about Severus Snape, she could have fertilized an entire orchard with them.

⸻

It had become a running joke among the staff.

Minerva would smile knowingly when anemones danced from her robes after dinner. Flitwick once offered to brew a calming draught when lilies bloomed in her tea. Even Hooch had taken to muttering, “Snape’s passing,” whenever her braid sprouted forget-me-nots in the corridor.

Everyone knew. Everyone except him.

Because Severus Snape did not read into things. Not those things. Especially not from her.

He assumed, if he thought about it at all, that she was simply unsettled by his presence—as so many were. That she trembled under his gaze out of discomfort, not yearning. That the flushed cheeks and flowering curls were signs of magical instability, not hopeless, blooming affection.

And that suited him just fine. He was a man who did not want to be loved.

She had accepted that. Told herself it was enough to love him quietly. To admire him from a distance. To feel the thrum of her magic react to his nearness like a sunflower leaning toward dusk.

Until the day he found her crying in the garden.

⸻

It had been a long week. The Whomping Willow had uprooted half the peony beds. Two sixth-years had charmed the fire ferns to sing. And she had received, earlier that morning, a letter from home. A reminder of everything she’d lost.

So she sat in the dirt, hands stained with soil, head bowed, and let herself sob among the violets.

She didn’t hear him at first. He moved like a shadow when he wanted to. But the moment he spoke, she froze.

“I was told you might be here.”

His voice again. Softened, this time. A little less cut glass.

She scrambled to wipe her eyes, but of course it was pointless. The air around her had already begun to thicken with wildflowers—grief-born and wild. Petunias for longing. Bluebells for sorrow. A thistle, sharp and purple, bloomed from her shoulder.

She couldn’t bear to look at him.

But he stepped closer. Not close enough to touch. But close enough to see.

“These—” His voice broke for a second, subtle but audible. “These come from your emotions.”

It was not a question.

She nodded, trying and failing to pull the wild roses from her braid. “Yes.”

A silence, filled only by the rustle of petals.

“I thought—” He paused. “I thought they were…an uncontrolled side-effect.”

She laughed, hoarse and tired. “They are. Just not the kind you thought.”

Another silence.

Then, softer than she had ever heard him: “Why me?”

She did not answer. Couldn’t. She just looked up at him, her heart in her throat, and hoped the flowers would say what she never could.

Chrysanthemums bloomed by her feet—red and gold.

Love. Loyalty. Grief. All tangled together.

He looked down at them for a long time. So long, the sun dipped behind the trees.

“I do not inspire softness,” he said finally, his voice unreadable.

“You do,” she whispered. “You just don’t see it.”

His eyes met hers. And for a flicker of a moment—barely there—something fragile cracked open in his expression. A sliver of vulnerability. Not acceptance. Not quite affection. But recognition.

And in that moment, the first snowdrops bloomed in her hair.

Hope.

⸻

He did not speak of it again. Not for weeks. But sometimes, she would catch him in the gardens at dusk, lingering longer than he needed to. Sometimes, she would find a pot of carefully labeled belladonna left at her door.

And sometimes—just sometimes—when she passed him in the corridor, her crown of wildflowers would tremble, and he would look at them.

Not with confusion. Not with disdain.

But with the faintest, quietest smile.

As if he, too, was beginning to understand the language of flowers.

[ms-snape]

Hi lovely~ Hope you're doing well recently. I didn't see you active much, and I've been missing your writing... But don't rush, just want to know if you're okay or not (⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠)

Hey, so I haven't poster in a while and I'm so sorry about thaT, can't say I'm gonna post more caUSe I know it's no true, I have a lot of personal and especially menthal problem this year unfortunately, and I hope I'll be able to get back to writing soon, however I've posted a new one shot few minutes ago, so, u can go chack on it but really it's not really good, thanks for caring <3

[ms-snape]

You know how some people don’t know their true strength? Imagine severus arguing with y/n and they’re still freshly dating and he slams his hand on the desk and things fall off because his fit was too strong and y/n kind of flinched and uncomfortable stepped back from him

Title: Control

Warning: angst

Words Count: 1500+

Masterlist

___

The house was still and quiet, save for the occasional crackle of the fire. The room, once full of warmth and comfort, now felt suffocating. The soft glow from the hearth cast long shadows on the walls, the orange flicker reflecting the heaviness that settled over the small space. It was late—later than either of them usually stayed awake—but neither seemed to notice the time. Severus Snape sat hunched over his desk, his quill moving mechanically across a piece of parchment, its faint scratching the only sound in the room.

Yn sat at the far end of the room, her tea now cold beside her. Her fingers traced the rim of the cup absently, her gaze fixed on Severus’ hunched figure. She had been watching him for hours now, noticing how distant he seemed, how lost in whatever battle was raging inside his mind. She had tried to reach out to him, tried to ask him what was wrong, but every time she approached, it was like hitting a wall.

There was a coldness to him tonight. A sharp edge to his words whenever they did speak, a stiffness in his posture that suggested he was battling with something dark, something he was desperate to keep buried. But Yn knew him better than that. She knew that whatever it was, it was tearing him apart from the inside, and no matter how much she wanted to help, no matter how much she needed to pull him back from the abyss, he was determined to face it alone.

Her thoughts drifted again, and she sighed softly, her eyes tracing the curve of his back. The air between them had been thick with tension for days. She could feel the distance growing, like an invisible chasm that neither of them knew how to cross. It had been there before—this quiet, suffocating silence. But never like this. Not like this.

"Severus," she said softly, her voice breaking the stillness. "You’ve been working for hours. Don’t you think you should take a break?"

He didn’t answer immediately, his quill continuing to dance across the parchment. It was as though he didn’t even hear her. But she could see the tension in his posture, the way his jaw clenched in frustration. Finally, after a long pause, he set the quill down with deliberate slowness, and without looking at her, he spoke in a voice that was as cold and distant as his eyes.

“I don’t need a break, Yn. I have work to do.”

His words stung, and she felt a cold, empty weight settle in her chest. She knew better than to push him when he was like this, but she couldn’t help herself. The fear of losing him—of losing the connection they once shared—gnawed at her insides.

“Severus,” she said again, her voice stronger this time, though still filled with concern. “We both know you’re not just buried in work. You’ve been shutting me out for days. And I don’t know what’s happening, but I need you to tell me. You don’t have to carry it alone.”

He froze at her words, his fingers twitching as if he wanted to pick up the quill again, to bury himself in the endless task in front of him. But he didn’t. Instead, he slowly turned his head toward her, his gaze dark and unreadable. There was a flicker of something in his eyes—a storm of emotions—but they quickly disappeared, masked by the cold, indifferent mask he had spent years perfecting.

“You think I want to burden you with my problems?” His voice was low, dangerously calm. "Do you think you can fix me? I don’t need fixing, Yn.”

The words hit her like a slap, and for a moment, she was frozen. Her chest tightened, and her hands trembled slightly. “I’m not trying to fix you, Severus,” she said quietly, her voice shaking. “I’m trying to be here for you. To help you. To... be with you. But you won’t let me. You won’t let me in.”

There was a beat of silence, and she could see his shoulders stiffen, his jaw tightening, a flicker of something dark crossing his face. He didn’t speak immediately, but she could tell that her words had struck a nerve. He looked at her—really looked at her—and for a brief moment, there was a tenderness in his gaze, something she hadn’t seen in days.

But that tenderness was quickly replaced by the cold hardness that had taken root in him.

“I don’t need help,” he said, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. “I’ve survived this long without anyone’s help. I don’t need anyone.”

Her heart ached at his words, the depth of his isolation sinking deep into her chest. How could he not see it? How could he not see that he was pushing her away, that the walls he was building between them were slowly destroying the very thing they had fought so hard to build? She took a step toward him, her breath quickening, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Severus, please... let me in. Please... I can’t help if you keep shutting me out.”

He rose abruptly from his chair, the movement so sudden that it startled her. She took an instinctive step back, her heart pounding in her chest.

“Stop it,” he snapped, his voice sharp. “Stop trying to fix me, stop pretending like you understand. You don’t.”

The words were like a slap to her face, and her chest tightened painfully. The anger in his voice, the bitterness—it was like an acid eating away at everything she had tried to build between them. Her eyes stung with tears, but she refused to let them fall.

“I’m not pretending,” she said, her voice breaking. “I’m not pretending, Severus. I just want to be here for you. I don’t want to lose you.”

His eyes darkened, and he stepped back, as though her words physically repelled him.

“You’ve already lost me,” he whispered, the words cutting deeper than any physical blow.

Her heart stopped. She felt like she had been punched in the gut, the breath stolen from her lungs. She had expected harsh words, yes. But this—this was different. This was final. She had never heard him speak so harshly, with such coldness, with such… finality.

And before she could respond, before she could even process what he had just said, his hand slammed onto the desk. The sound of it echoed in the small room, and she flinched. Her heart raced in her chest, and for the briefest moment, she thought he might strike her. The thought took her breath away, and her body reacted instinctively. She stumbled back, her hands raised defensively in front of her, eyes wide with shock.

Her fear was palpable, and Severus saw it immediately. The look on her face—the way she recoiled from him, the way her breath caught in her throat—it hit him like a wave. His stomach dropped, and a cold, bitter regret spread through him like poison.

He had gone too far. He had let the anger, the frustration, the shame consume him, and in doing so, he had shattered something precious. The look of terror in her eyes made his blood run cold.

He stepped back, his hands shaking as he rubbed his face, his head bowed in shame. “Yn, I... I didn’t... I never meant to...”

But his words faltered. She was still standing there, frozen, her body trembling as if she were afraid to move. Her chest heaved with shallow breaths, and he could see the way her eyes flickered with confusion, with hurt, with something deeper—something that he knew he had caused.

“I thought...” Her voice was barely a whisper, her eyes distant, as if the fear had taken her somewhere else entirely. “I thought you were going to hurt me....”

The words hung in the air between them, thick and suffocating. The raw, painful truth of what she had feared—the thing he had never wanted to be—was now out in the open. And he couldn’t take it back.

“I would never...” he whispered, his voice raw with regret. “I swear to you, Yn, I would never hurt you. But I... I don’t know what I’ve become.”

Her hands were still trembling as she wiped away a tear, but her eyes never left his. “Then why did you leave me with nothing but fear?” she asked, her voice breaking.

The question stung him worse than any curse. He had no answer for her. No justification. All he could do was stand there, broken and regretful, silently wishing he could undo the damage.

Without saying another word, Severus turned and walked to the door. His heart was heavy, burdened with the weight of his mistakes. He had never wanted to hurt her, but his rage, his shame, had clouded his judgment. And now, as he opened the door and stepped out into the cold night, the loneliness pressed in around him. The guilt weighed on him like a thousand stones.

He needed time to think, to process. To understand what he had done. But as the door clicked shut behind him, a deep, hollow emptiness filled the space where once there had been something more.

Yn stood alone in the dimly lit room, her body trembling, her mind reeling. She didn’t know how long she stood there, lost in the silence, in the fear and hurt that had taken root in her heart. Her mind screamed at her to reach out, to run after him, to beg him to come back. But a part of her knew that he needed this. He needed space.

For a while, the only sound in the room was the crackling of the fire, the soft murmurs of the flames mocking the brokenness that had settled between them.

[ms-snape]

Omg please write an imagine in which reader and snape are in a relationship and she never calls him by his name, only nicknames and stuff like that (baby, darling, love, different nicknames, etc.) one day either the fight or he tells her off about it and suddenly she stops and calls like everyone else (Severus/snape/whatever) and only then he realizes how much he loved the way it previously was and it drives him mad trying to get her to go back without out right saying it (cause the grumpy proud man that he is😂)

Title: Grumpy Proud Man

Warning: A bit of angst

Words Count: 2000+

___

The warm, golden light of the early morning filtered through the greenhouse windows, casting intricate patterns across the floor. Y/N hummed softly to herself, her hands deep in the soil of a Venomous Tentacula pot. The plant quivered slightly, its tendrils curling inwards as if it recognized her gentle touch. Herbology was her passion, and every day spent tending to the vibrant flora of Hogwarts felt like a dream come true.

She glanced at the clock on the wall and smiled. Severus would be finishing his first class of the day soon. Her heart gave a little flutter, as it always did when she thought of him. Severus Snape, the enigmatic Potions Master, with his sharp wit and sharper tongue, was a man who had captured her heart entirely. She adored him, though he often pretended to be immune to such affection.

Y/N wiped her hands on her apron and set the Venomous Tentacula aside. She wanted to surprise him with tea in his office—a small token of her love. As she prepared the tray with precise care, her mind wandered to the first time they’d spoken. It had been over a shared interest in rare magical plants. What had started as professional respect had grown into a deep bond, though they couldn’t have been more different in temperament.

Where Y/N was warm and openly affectionate, Severus was reserved, his emotions locked behind an impenetrable wall. But she saw through it—the way his eyes softened when he looked at her, the way his voice lowered when they spoke. He loved her, even if he struggled to say it aloud.

Over the following days, Y/N made a habit of showering Severus with affection in small, thoughtful ways. She would slip into the dungeons with a fresh cup of tea or a plate of his favorite biscuits, always accompanied by a soft kiss on his temple or a playful ruffle of his hair. “My Sevvy,” she’d call him, her voice dripping with adoration. “You work too hard. Take a moment to breathe, love.”

Severus would sigh, his expression caught between exasperation and fondness. “You’re incorrigible,” he’d mutter, though he never truly pushed her away. He didn’t know how to respond to such open affection, but he found himself craving her presence nonetheless.

In the evenings, she’d join him in his quarters, curling up beside him on the worn sofa as he read through his notes. She’d rest her head on his shoulder, her fingers tracing idle patterns along his arm. “Sevvy, darling, have I told you how much I love you today?”

“Only a dozen times,” he’d reply dryly, though his lips would twitch as if suppressing a smile.

“Well, it bears repeating,” she’d say, kissing the corner of his mouth. “You’re brilliant, and I’m so lucky to have you.”

These moments brought a flicker of warmth to Severus’s otherwise somber world, though he struggled to reconcile them with his own guarded nature. While he appreciated her love, he often found himself retreating inward, unsure of how to handle such unabashed devotion.

One morning, as Y/N prepared a basket of pastries to bring to the staff lounge, she couldn’t resist adding a small bouquet of flowers from the greenhouse. Severus had been particularly terse the day before, and she wanted to brighten his mood.

When she arrived at his office, she found him hunched over his desk, his hair falling in dark curtains around his face. She knocked lightly before stepping inside. “Sevvy, love, I brought you something.”

He looked up, his expression immediately guarded. “What is it now?”

She set the basket down, her smile unwavering. “Just some pastries and a little something to make your office feel less dreary.” She held out the bouquet, her eyes shining with hope.

Severus stared at the flowers, his mouth pressing into a thin line. “Y/N,” he said, his tone measured, “this isn’t necessary.”

“Of course it is,” she replied, undeterred. “You deserve to be surrounded by beauty.”

“I’m quite capable of managing without,” he said sharply, pushing the bouquet away.

Her smile faltered, but she quickly masked her disappointment. “Alright,” she said softly, setting the flowers on the windowsill instead. “I’ll just leave them here in case you change your mind.”

The tension reached its breaking point a few days later. Y/N had come to his office after dinner, her arms full of papers she’d been grading. She’d planned to sit with him while he worked, enjoying their usual quiet companionship. But when she called him “Sevvy” for the third time that evening, his patience snapped.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice dangerously low, “must you persist with these ridiculous nicknames?”

She blinked, startled. “I didn’t think you minded,” she said, her voice tinged with hurt. “It’s just my way of showing you how much I care.”

“And I have tolerated it,” he said, standing abruptly. “But there are limits. I am not some simpering fool to be coddled with pet names.”

Y/N’s cheeks flushed, a mix of embarrassment and anger rising within her. “I never meant to make you feel that way. I just… I thought it made you happy.”

“Happy?” he repeated, his tone biting. “Do I strike you as a man who delights in such trivialities?”

Her eyes filled with tears, but she refused to let them fall. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly, her voice trembling. “I didn’t realize my affection was such a burden to you.”

“Y/N,” he began, but she shook her head, cutting him off.

“No, I understand,” she said, her voice firm despite the crack in it. “If it bothers you that much, I won’t call you those names anymore.”

She turned and left, her footsteps echoing in the dimly lit corridor. Severus watched her go, his chest tightening with an unfamiliar ache. He didn’t try to stop her.

The days that followed were marked by a distinct shift in their dynamic. Y/N kept her promise, addressing him only as Severus or Professor Snape, even when they were alone. She no longer reached for his hand during their quiet walks around the grounds, nor did she surprise him with kisses on his cheek when they crossed paths in the corridors. Her vibrant warmth seemed to dim, replaced by a careful restraint that mirrored his own.

At first, Severus told himself it was a relief. He valued order and discipline, even in his personal life. But as the days turned into weeks, he began to notice the absence of her usual cheer. The way her laughter no longer echoed through the greenhouse, the way her smiles didn’t quite reach her eyes. She was still kind, still attentive, but there was a distance between them that hadn’t been there before.

One evening, as they sat together in her quarters, the silence between them felt heavier than usual. Y/N was curled up on the sofa, a book in her lap, while Severus sipped his tea. The fire crackled in the hearth, but its warmth did little to dispel the chill in the room.

“Y/N,” he said suddenly, breaking the silence.

She looked up from her book, her expression neutral. “Yes, Severus?”

He hesitated, the words forming and reforming in his mind. “Have I upset you?”

Her brows lifted in mild surprise. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

“You…” He gestured vaguely. “You’ve been different.”

She closed her book and set it aside, turning to face him fully. “I’ve only been doing what you asked. I’ve respected your boundaries.”

Her words were calm, but there was an edge to them that made his chest tighten. “I didn’t mean for you to… withdraw entirely.”

“I haven’t,” she said, folding her hands in her lap. “I still care for you deeply, Severus. I’m just… trying to be what you need.”

He frowned, leaning forward slightly. “And what of what you need?”

Her lips curved into a sad smile. “I thought what I needed was you. But perhaps I’ve been asking too much.”

Her words hung in the air, and Severus had no reply. The fire crackled, filling the silence as the space between them seemed to grow wider. For the first time, Severus realized just how much he missed the sound of her calling him “Sevvy,” of her warm laughter echoing in the stillness. But he couldn’t bring himself to say it.

The following week brought more moments of realization, though Severus kept his thoughts buried. One afternoon, as they worked side by side in the greenhouse, Y/N handed him a cutting from a Fanged Geranium.

“Here, Severus,” she said, her tone polite but distant. “This one’s ready for potting.”

He took the cutting, his fingers brushing hers for a brief moment. The usual spark of warmth was absent, replaced by an emptiness that gnawed at him. He watched her as she moved to the other side of the greenhouse, her focus entirely on the plants. She didn’t hum as she usually did, and the silence felt oppressive.

Later that evening, during dinner in the Great Hall, Y/N addressed him in the same formal tone. “Severus, could you pass the salt?”

He complied, the simple act feeling strangely hollow. As he glanced at her, he noticed the faint lines of exhaustion around her eyes. She was smiling at something Professor Sprout had said, but it didn’t reach her eyes. He looked away, a knot tightening in his chest.

By the time the evening ended, Severus found himself lingering in the corridor outside her quarters. He raised his hand to knock but hesitated. What could he say? That he missed her warmth, her nicknames, her unbridled affection? The words refused to form, and after a moment, he turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing in the empty hallway.

As the days stretched on, the distance between them became almost unbearable. Severus found himself longing for the very things he’d pushed away—the sound of her laughter, the way she’d light up a room just by being in it. But his pride held him back, keeping the words locked inside.

One evening, as they passed each other in the corridor, Y/N offered him a small, polite smile. “Good evening, Severus,” she said softly.

He nodded, his throat tightening. “Good evening, Y/N.”

As she walked away, the realization struck him with full force: he’d driven away the one person who had ever truly cared for him. And though he desperately wanted to fix it, he didn’t know how. Instead, he stood there, rooted to the spot, watching her retreating figure until she disappeared around the corner.

The following night, Severus sat in his quarters, the air thick with the scent of brewing potions and the faint crackle of the fire. A small vial of calming draught sat untouched on the edge of his desk. He had been staring at it for an hour, his mind replaying the moments of their relationship, the brightness she brought, the warmth he hadn’t realized he depended on.

He set the vial aside and stood, his resolve hardening. Enough was enough. He couldn’t undo the pain he had caused her, but he could at least admit he was wrong. He pulled his cloak around his shoulders and left his quarters, his strides purposeful yet hesitant.

When he reached the greenhouse, he found her bent over a table, tending to a row of Flutterby bushes. The moonlight streaming through the glass panes caught in her hair, making her look ethereal. For a moment, he simply watched her, his chest tightening with a strange mix of longing and guilt.

“Y/N,” he said finally, his voice low but steady.

She straightened, turning to face him. “Severus,” she said, her tone neutral but not unkind. “What brings you here so late?”

He hesitated, his usual composure faltering. “I need to speak with you.”

She wiped her hands on her apron and nodded. “Of course. What is it?”

The words stuck in his throat for a moment, but he forced them out. “I… I owe you an apology.”

Her eyes widened slightly, surprise flickering across her face. She said nothing, waiting for him to continue.

“I’ve been a fool,” he admitted, his voice heavy with self-reproach. “Your affection, your warmth… I took it for granted. Worse, I dismissed it as trivial when it was anything but.”

Her expression softened, though she still looked guarded. “Severus…”

He stepped closer, his dark eyes searching hers. “I thought I needed distance, control. But all I’ve managed to do is drive you away. And in doing so, I’ve come to realize how much I miss… everything about you. Your laughter, your kindness. Even the ridiculous nicknames.”

A faint smile tugged at her lips, though tears glistened in her eyes. “You mean that?”

“I do,” he said, his voice breaking slightly. “I’m not good at this, Y/N. I don’t know how to show love the way you do, but… I want to try. If you’ll let me.”

She closed the distance between them, reaching up to cup his face in her hands. “Oh, Severus,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “You didn’t have to be perfect. You just had to be you.”

His hands came to rest lightly on her waist, his touch tentative. “You deserve so much more than I’ve given you.”

“What I deserve,” she said firmly, “is a partner who tries. And if you’re willing to do that, then that’s all I need.”

He nodded, a faint sheen of tears in his own eyes. “I’ll try.”

She smiled then, the first genuine smile he’d seen from her in weeks. “That’s all I ask, Sevvy.”

A soft laugh escaped him, and he shook his head. “You’ll be insufferable with those names again, won’t you?”

“Absolutely,” she teased, leaning up to press a kiss to his cheek. “But only because I love you.”

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Severus allowed himself to smile—a small, hesitant smile, but genuine nonetheless. Together, they stood in the moonlit greenhouse, the distance between them finally bridged.

[ms-snape]

Hi could you please write an imagine in which snaps and reader are together, reader grew up in a muggle house, didn’t go to a wizarding school therefore doesn’t know a whole lot about magic. Somehow they find out the other has powers and Snape takes it upon himself to teach her everything.

Title: Magic?

Warning: None

Words Count: 2000+

Masterlist

___

Severus Snape was a man who kept his life meticulously ordered—every detail tightly controlled, every secret well-guarded. His flat in Spinner’s End reflected that precision: shelves lined with books on obscure topics, an assortment of jars containing rare herbs and powders, and not a single item out of place. For years, his life had been predictable, secluded, and exactly as he preferred it.

Until Y/N.

She had appeared one rainy autumn afternoon, moving into the house near his with a clatter of boxes and the faint sound of her laughter through the place. He’d paid her no mind at first, assuming she was just another ordinary muggle passing through the neighborhood. But Y/N had a way of quietly insinuating herself into his life, her warmth and curiosity chipping away at the walls he had spent years constructing.

It started with small conversations, then turned into shared cups of tea on dreary afternoons. Severus found himself drawn to her despite his better judgment, captivated by her wit and her ability to see through his sharp exterior without fear. Before long, her presence became a comfort he didn’t know he needed.

But Severus Snape was no ordinary man, and secrets like his had a way of complicating even the simplest of relationships.

The first time Severus noticed something unusual about Y/N, it was during one of their many tea sessions. She had been recounting a frustrating encounter with a nosy coworker, her voice tinged with exasperation, when the sugar bowl on the table suddenly slid toward her without anyone touching it.

Severus froze, his sharp black eyes narrowing as he watched the bowl settle.

Y/N, however, seemed entirely unaware. She simply reached for the sugar and continued talking as if nothing had happened.

The incident lingered in Severus’s mind for days. It wasn’t an isolated occurrence. As their relationship deepened, he began to notice more of these oddities.

One evening, while she was cooking dinner, she muttered under her breath about needing a spoon. A drawer across the room creaked open, and a wooden spoon floated out, landing neatly on the counter. She had stared at it in confusion for a moment before shaking her head and muttering something about exhaustion.

Then there was the time they had gotten into a mild argument. The moment her voice rose, the lights flickered ominously, and a glass on the counter shattered. Y/N had apologized profusely, blaming her clumsiness, but Severus couldn’t ignore the growing evidence.

She was no ordinary muggle.

He debated telling her for weeks, but every time he tried, the words caught in his throat. How could he explain magic to someone who had lived her entire life unaware of its existence? More importantly, how could he tell her that she might possess magic of her own?

As he hesitated, Y/N’s curiosity began to grow. She wasn’t blind to his odd behaviors—the way he seemed to know things he shouldn’t, the strange ingredients she occasionally glimpsed in his kitchen, or the books with titles written in languages she couldn’t understand.

It all came to a head one fateful evening.

Severus had been in his study, absorbed in a particularly complex potion, when Y/N’s voice broke through his concentration.

“Severus, can I ask you something?”

He looked up, his expression unreadable. “What is it?”

She stepped into the room, holding a thick, leather-bound book in her hands. His heart sank as he recognized it immediately.

“Where did you get that?” he asked sharply.

“It was on the shelf,” she replied, her brow furrowed. “I was looking for something to read, and this caught my eye. But… Severus, what is this? It’s not just a book, is it?”

He rose from his chair, his movements slow and deliberate. “Y/N,” he began, his voice measured, “that is not something you should have been reading.”

“Why not?” she pressed. “It’s not like I can understand half of it. But the parts I do understand…” She flipped the book open, pointing to a page filled with detailed instructions for a potion. “This talks about powdered unicorn horn and asphodel. These aren’t… normal things, are they?”

Severus stared at her, his mind racing. There was no more hiding it.

“No,” he said finally. “They are not.”

She waited, her expression a mixture of confusion and determination. “Then explain it to me. Please.”

And so he did.

Severus spent the next hour explaining everything—the wizarding world, Hogwarts, and his own role as a potions master. He spoke of magic and its many forms, carefully observing her reaction as he revealed the truth he had kept hidden for so long.

Y/N listened in stunned silence, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. When he finished, she exhaled a shaky breath.

“So… you’re a wizard,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes,” he confirmed.

“And you’ve been hiding this from me the entire time we’ve known each other?”

“I was protecting you,” he said, his tone defensive. “The less you knew, the safer you were.”

She frowned, her gaze piercing. “Safe from what?”

“From the dangers of my world,” he replied. “Magic is not always a gift. It can be a burden—a dangerous one.”

Y/N shook her head, her expression softening. “Severus, I understand why you wanted to protect me. But don’t you think I deserve to know the truth? Especially if…” She hesitated, her voice faltering.

“If what?” he prompted.

“If I’m part of it too,” she said quietly.

Severus’s eyes narrowed. “What are you saying?”

She looked down at her hands, twisting them nervously. “I’ve always had… strange things happen around me. Things I couldn’t explain. I thought I was just unlucky or clumsy, but… after what you’ve told me, I don’t know anymore.”

He studied her carefully, his mind racing. He had suspected as much, but hearing her say it aloud confirmed what he had been reluctant to admit.

“Y/N,” he said slowly, “it is possible that you are not a muggle.”

Her eyes widened. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” he continued, “that you may be a witch.”

___

The morning light filtered softly through the windows of Severus’s flat, illuminating the scattered remnants of the night before: a few spell books left open on the table, a candle burned low in its holder, and a single white feather resting in the middle of the room. Y/N sat cross-legged on the floor, her brow furrowed in concentration as she waved a borrowed wand at the feather.

“Wingardium Leviosa,” she muttered, her tone deliberate.

The feather trembled slightly but refused to lift. Instead, it skidded a few inches across the wooden floor.

“Again,” Severus instructed from his chair, his tone calm but firm.

Y/N sighed, gripping the wand tighter. “I’ve said it at least twenty times. Why isn’t it working?”

“Because,” he replied, “you’re trying to force it. Magic requires control, yes, but also intention. You cannot simply will it into being. You must feel it, allow it to flow.”

She groaned, letting her head drop forward in frustration. “This is harder than it looks.”

Severus set down the book he’d been thumbing through and moved to sit beside her on the floor. His presence was steadying, his dark eyes watching her with an intensity that made her heart race.

“Y/N,” he said softly, his voice losing some of its usual edge, “no one masters magic overnight. Even the most talented witches and wizards stumble when they first begin.”

“But I can’t even levitate a feather,” she muttered, her tone tinged with disappointment.

“Progress is not measured by perfection,” he said, reaching out to gently tilt her chin so she was looking at him. “Every spell, no matter how small, is a step forward.”

She gave him a small, tentative smile, and he allowed himself a rare moment of softness, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

“Come,” he said, standing and offering her his hand. “Let’s try again.”

For the next hour, Y/N practiced under Severus’s watchful eye. Each attempt was met with either a subtle correction or a murmured word of encouragement. When she managed to lift the feather a few inches off the ground, she let out a triumphant laugh, her excitement lighting up the room.

“I did it!” she exclaimed, turning to Severus.

He allowed himself a small, approving smile. “Indeed, you did.”

Unable to contain her excitement, she threw her arms around him, nearly knocking him off balance. He stiffened for a moment before relaxing, his hands resting awkwardly on her back.

“You’re a surprisingly affectionate student,” he remarked dryly, though the faintest hint of amusement flickered in his eyes.

“And you’re a surprisingly patient teacher,” she shot back, grinning.

He shook his head, muttering something about “foolishness,” but the corners of his mouth betrayed him, curving ever so slightly upward.

As the days turned into weeks, their lessons became a regular routine. Severus taught her simple spells first—lumos to light her wand, accio to summon objects, and even reparo to fix the various things she accidentally broke during her practice.

But not every lesson was smooth.

One rainy afternoon, Y/N was attempting to cast a cleaning charm on a spill she’d made. Instead of vanishing, the liquid exploded outward, splattering both her and Severus with tea.

She gasped, horrified. “Oh no! I’m so sorry, Severus!”

He stood there, dripping tea, his expression unreadable. For a moment, she thought he might be angry, but then he let out a deep sigh and flicked his wand, vanishing the mess in an instant.

“Perhaps,” he said, his tone dry, “we’ll revisit cleaning charms another day.”

Y/N couldn’t help but laugh, and to her surprise, Severus’s lips twitched in response.

Despite her occasional missteps, Y/N’s progress was undeniable. With each successful spell, her confidence grew, and Severus found himself strangely proud of her determination.

One evening, as they practiced in the dim light of his study, Y/N managed to conjure a small stream of water from her wand. She let out a delighted laugh, her eyes sparkling as she turned to him.

“Did you see that?” she asked, beaming.

“I saw,” he replied, his voice quiet.

Her joy was infectious, and before she could stop herself, she leaned in and kissed him. It was a fleeting kiss, soft and full of gratitude, but it lingered between them like an unspoken promise.

When she pulled back, she looked at him nervously. “Was that okay?”

Severus’s dark eyes searched hers, and for a moment, she thought he might retreat behind his usual stoicism. But then he reached out, his hand cupping her cheek as he kissed her back—slowly, deliberately, as though he were committing the moment to memory.

When they finally parted, he rested his forehead against hers, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’re remarkable, Y/N.”

Her heart swelled, and she smiled, brushing a strand of dark hair from his face. “So are you, Severus.”

The weeks passed in a blur of lessons, laughter, and quiet moments shared between spells. Y/N still struggled at times—her wand sometimes sparked unpredictably, and her frustration would boil over when a spell refused to cooperate. But Severus was always there, steady and patient, guiding her with a firm but gentle hand.

One evening, as they sat together by the fire, Y/N leaned against him, her head resting on his shoulder.

“Do you think I’ll ever be good at this?” she asked softly.

Severus placed a hand over hers, his touch warm and reassuring. “You already are.”

She looked up at him, her eyes searching his. “You really believe that?”

“I do,” he said simply.

Y/N smiled, her doubts melting away under his steady gaze. For all his gruffness and guarded nature, Severus had a way of making her feel seen—truly seen.

And as she drifted off to sleep in his arms, she realized that magic, for all its wonder and mystery, was nothing compared to the love they had found in each other.

[ms-snape]

She fell first, but he fell harder

[ms-snape]

Hii luv, how are you doing? You havent been active hope everythings well 😚

Hey, I know i haven't been active lately and I'm truly sorry about it, I just had some emotional and mental problems I had to deal with but it's a little bit better now, I just posted a new chapter of my new story few mintues ago and I really hope I won't be gone too long again

Sorry again <3

[ms-snape]

Beneath The Dark Mark Chapter 2

Masterlist

---

The streets of London were damp, a faint mist rising from the cobblestones as Severus Snape stepped into the shadows concealing Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. The house materialized with its usual groan of ancient wood and stone, as though reluctant to reveal itself even to those who belonged. He strode through the door, his black cloak sweeping around him, and descended the narrow staircase leading to the kitchen.

The air inside was stifling, carrying the faint scents of wood smoke and overcooked stew. Around the long, battered table sat the Order of the Phoenix, their faces etched with the lines of worry and exhaustion that came from fighting a war most of the world refused to acknowledge. Arthur Weasley leaned forward, his elbows on the table, while Molly fussed with the remnants of the meal she’d prepared. Kingsley Shacklebolt sat with quiet authority, and Alastor Moody’s magical eye swiveled endlessly, never pausing for a moment’s rest.

And then there was Sirius Black, leaning against the hearth with an air of restless irritation. His dark hair was untamed, and his sharp features bore the bitterness of too many years spent in Azkaban. He glanced at Snape with open disdain, a sneer curling his lips.

Snape stepped into the room, his presence as always bringing a shift in the atmosphere. Conversations faltered, and all eyes turned toward him. He met their gazes with his usual cold indifference, his pale face expressionless, though his dark eyes carried a flicker of something guarded.

“Severus,” Dumbledore greeted him from his seat at the head of the table, his voice calm but commanding. The old wizard’s piercing blue eyes studied him intently. “You have returned. I trust you bring news?”

Snape inclined his head. “I do,” he said, his voice low and deliberate. He moved to the far end of the table, taking a seat as far from Sirius as possible.

Sirius, however, was not one to let the moment pass. “So, what’s it like?” he drawled, his tone laced with venom. “Rubbing elbows with your fellow Death Eaters again?”

Snape’s lip curled in disdain, but he kept his voice measured. “If you’re quite finished, Black, I have more important things to discuss than your petty grievances.”

“Enough,” Dumbledore said firmly, silencing Sirius with a glance. “Severus, please.”

Snape allowed himself a moment to gather his thoughts before he began. “The meeting took place at Malfoy Manor,” he said. “The Dark Lord has chosen it as a gathering place for his followers—a symbol of power and wealth, carefully chosen to reinforce his authority.”

The mention of the manor drew a derisive snort from Sirius. “Of course Lucius would offer up his house. Anything to stay on Voldemort’s good side.”

Snape’s gaze flicked to Sirius, cold and sharp. “Your personal animosities are irrelevant, Black. If you’re incapable of understanding that, I suggest you remove yourself from this meeting.”

Sirius pushed off the hearth, his fists clenched, but Kingsley placed a steadying hand on his shoulder. “Let him speak,” Kingsley said evenly.

Snape continued as if the interruption had not occurred. “The meeting was attended by the usual core of his followers: Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, Bellatrix Lestrange, the Carrows, Fenrir Greyback, and others. They renewed their pledges of loyalty, swearing their allegiance with the usual fervor. Bellatrix, of course, was the most vocal in her devotion.”

“Did he speak of his plans?” Kingsley asked, his deep voice calm but probing.

“Only in broad terms,” Snape replied. “He spoke of exploiting the Ministry’s weaknesses, of taking advantage of the chaos caused by Fudge’s refusal to acknowledge his return. He intends to undermine the Ministry from within, using fear and manipulation to erode its authority. However, his ultimate focus remains unchanged: Potter.”

At this, Harry, who sat silently in the corner, stiffened. Molly reached out to place a comforting hand on his arm, her face pale with worry.

“And what of Potter?” Arthur asked anxiously. “Did he give any specifics?”

Snape shook his head. “Not yet. The Dark Lord is careful. He reveals only what is necessary, even to his most trusted followers.”

There was a moment of silence as the group absorbed his words. Then Snape spoke again, his tone quieter but no less intense.

“There was, however, one individual of note. A new recruit.”

This statement drew the attention of everyone in the room.

“She seemed.... quite young,” Snape continued, “perhaps in her early twenties. Dark-haired, sharp-eyed. She carried herself with an unusual confidence, even among seasoned Death Eaters.”

“What did she say?” Dumbledore asked, his tone calm but watchful.

“She spoke little during the meeting itself,” Snape said, “but when she did, everyone listened. She spoke of the Ministry, its vulnerabilities, and its divisions. Her observations were precise, calculated. It was evident she has studied its structure in detail. Even the Dark Lord seemed intrigued by her.”

“And you don’t know her name?” Moody asked, his magical eye fixed on Snape.

“No,” Snape admitted. “She was not introduced formally, nor did she offer her name. But she approached me after the meeting.”

Sirius straightened at this, his expression darkening. “She approached you?”

“Yes,” Snape said coldly. “She asked about my... allegiances. Her questions were subtle but pointed, designed to test my loyalty. She is intelligent, far more so than most of the Dark Lord’s followers.”

“And what did you tell her?” Sirius demanded, his voice sharp with suspicion.

“What I always tell them,” Snape said, his tone biting. ��That I serve the Dark Lord’s will. Or would you prefer I reveal the Order’s secrets, Black?”

Sirius’s fists clenched at his sides, and he took a step forward, his temper flaring. “Don’t you dare lecture me about loyalty, Snape. You’re the one playing both sides—”

“Enough,” Dumbledore interrupted, his voice cutting through the tension. He turned to Snape, his expression thoughtful. “Severus, this young woman—did she have an accent?”

Snape frowned slightly. “Yes. Subtle, but present. Eastern European, I believe.”

Dumbledore’s face darkened, his sharp blue eyes clouded with a rare hint of concern. “I believe I know who she is.”

The room fell silent, every pair of eyes now on Dumbledore. He sighed softly, as though the weight of his knowledge was a burden.

“Her name,” he said slowly, “is Y/N Y/L/N. She was once a student at Durmstrang, though she left under... unusual circumstances. Her parents were staunch supporters of Grindelwald during his rise to power. If she has aligned herself with Voldemort, it is by choice, not coercion. And that makes her all the more dangerous.”

Snape’s mind churned as he listened, the memory of Y/N’s piercing gaze resurfacing with unsettling clarity. He had sensed her power, her intelligence—but this new information cast her in an even more dangerous light.

“She must be watched,” Dumbledore said, addressing the group. “Severus, your connection to her, however fleeting, may prove invaluable. Continue to observe her, and report anything you learn.”

Severus inclined his head, his expression unreadable. “Of course.”

The meeting concluded not long after, but as the others filed out, Severus remained seated, his thoughts churning. The memory of Y/N lingered—her sharp gaze, her measured words, the way she had seemed to see through him in an instant. She had spoken little, and yet she had left an impression that was impossible to shake.

For the first time in a long while, Severus felt an inkling of uncertainty—a feeling he did not welcome but could not ignore.

---

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[ms-snape]

Beneath The Dark Mark Chapter 1

Masterlist

—-

The night stretched endlessly, blanketing the world in oppressive darkness. The sky, a mass of rolling black clouds, smothered the faintest hint of stars or moonlight. A chill wind crept across the overgrown grounds of the abandoned estate, stirring dead leaves and whispering through the skeletal remains of long-forgotten trees. Even the earth itself seemed to recoil from the malevolent energy coursing through the place, as though it knew of the gathering shadows within.

Severus Snape Apparated with a sharp crack just beyond the manor’s crumbling gates. He stood still for a moment, letting the cold air bite at his pale skin, his black cloak billowing faintly in the breeze. The Mark on his left arm burned beneath his sleeve, a relentless pulse of pain that served as both a summons and a warning. Voldemort was not merely calling his followers—he was demanding their allegiance, their presence, their lives.

Ahead, the manor loomed like a corpse, its ruined silhouette a jagged outline against the storm-heavy sky. Ivy and rot had claimed its once-grand facade, and shattered windows stared out like empty sockets. Yet, for all its decay, the building thrummed with a sinister vitality tonight. Faint torchlight flickered through the gaping windows, and an invisible barrier of wards shimmered faintly in the darkness, keeping unwanted visitors at bay.

Snape moved forward with measured steps, his boots crunching against gravel and brittle weeds. The wrought-iron gates, warped and rusted, hung open as if welcoming him in. He passed through them without hesitation, the wards brushing against his skin like cold fingers before parting to let him through. He felt the familiar weight of the Dark Lord’s magic in those wards—ancient, suffocating, inescapable.

The manor’s massive wooden doors creaked open as he approached, moved by no hand that he could see. The sound echoed into the cavernous entry hall, where shadows clung to every surface, broken only by the flicker of torches mounted on the walls. The air was damp and heavy, carrying the faint scents of mildew and decay. It was the perfect setting for what was to come—a night of dark promises and sinister plans.

Snape adjusted his cloak and stepped inside, his sharp eyes scanning the hall. The low murmur of voices reached his ears, distant but unmistakable. He followed the sound through a series of winding corridors, the cracked stone floors and faded tapestries whispering of a long-forgotten grandeur. The voices grew louder as he neared the dining hall, mingling with faint bursts of laughter—Bellatrix Lestrange’s manic cackle, high and shrill, cut through the din like a blade.

The dining hall was cavernous, its vaulted ceilings lost in shadow. A long, ancient table dominated the room, its surface scarred and stained from years of use—and abuse. Around it sat the Death Eaters, their black robes blending into the dim light. Some wore their masks, their expressionless faces reflecting the flickering torchlight, while others had discarded them, their pale features tense with anticipation.

At the head of the table sat Lord Voldemort.

The Dark Lord’s presence was suffocating, an aura of malevolence so potent it seemed to leach the warmth from the air. His skeletal frame was draped in flowing black robes, and his pale, snake-like features were illuminated by the firelight. Crimson eyes swept the room, unblinking and merciless, as though daring anyone to meet his gaze.

“Severus,” Voldemort said, his voice soft yet carrying the weight of command. The room fell silent instantly, every head turning to watch as Snape entered.

“My Lord,” Snape replied, bowing low as he approached the table. His voice was calm, measured, giving no hint of the tension coiling in his chest.

Voldemort’s lips curved into a thin, humorless smile. “It pleases me to see you here tonight, Severus. You have served me well, even in my absence. But tell me… do you feel the weight of my return?”

“I do, my Lord,” Snape said smoothly, rising from his bow. His dark eyes flickered briefly to meet Voldemort’s crimson gaze before lowering in deference. “The wizarding world has grown complacent without you. They will not remain so for long.”

Voldemort inclined his head, his smile widening slightly. “No, they will not. Tonight, we take the first steps toward reclaiming what is rightfully ours.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the room, broken by Bellatrix Lestrange’s delighted laughter. “They will cower before you, my Lord!” she cried, her wild eyes gleaming. “The Ministry, the Order, all of them—they are nothing compared to your power!”

“Patience, Bellatrix,” Voldemort said, his voice carrying a faint edge of warning. “We must act with precision. Fear is a tool, but it must be wielded carefully.”

The Dark Lord’s gaze swept the table, settling on each of his followers in turn. Snape felt the weight of that gaze as it lingered on him for a moment before moving on. He recognized most of the faces—Lucius Malfoy, his silver hair gleaming in the firelight; Fenrir Greyback, his predatory grin revealing sharp, yellowed teeth; the hulking figure of Crabbe Sr., who sat silently, his beady eyes fixed on Voldemort.

But there were new faces as well—young recruits who had joined the fold since Voldemort’s return. One in particular caught Snape’s attention.

She was seated near the center of the table, her dark eyes scanning the room with a quiet intensity. Her mask lay on the table beside her, a bold choice for someone so new. Her features were sharp and angular, her dark hair pulled back in a neat braid. Unlike the others, she seemed entirely unruffled, her posture relaxed yet poised.

As if sensing his scrutiny, she turned her head slightly, her gaze locking with his. For a moment, neither moved, the silence between them thick with unspoken tension. Then she inclined her head, a faint smile playing on her lips, before returning her attention to Voldemort.

“Now,” Voldemort said, his voice drawing every eye back to him. “We have much to discuss. The Ministry grows bolder in its denial of my return, and Dumbledore’s Order will not sit idle. We must strike swiftly and decisively, but not without strategy.”

He gestured toward Lucius Malfoy, who stood and began to speak in his smooth, aristocratic tones. “My Lord, the Ministry is fractured. Fudge clings to his position, desperate to maintain the illusion of control. There are opportunities to exploit, but we must tread carefully. Too bold a move, and we risk driving them into Dumbledore’s arms.”

“Dumbledore,” Bellatrix spat, her expression twisting with hatred. “That fool won’t save them. Let me deal with him, my Lord—I’ll tear him apart myself!”

Voldemort’s crimson eyes flickered with amusement. “All in due time, Bellatrix. For now, Dumbledore remains a formidable opponent. But even he has his weaknesses.”

The discussion continued, shifting from the Ministry to the wizarding world at large. Plans were laid, names whispered, and tasks assigned. Snape listened carefully, his sharp mind filing away every detail. When Voldemort turned to him, he straightened, his expression impassive.

“Severus,” the Dark Lord said, “you will continue to serve as my eyes and ears within Hogwarts. The old man trusts you, does he not?”

“He does, my Lord,” Snape replied, his voice steady. “He believes I am loyal to him, as you intended.”

“Good,” Voldemort said, a faint smile curling his lips. “Keep it that way. Your position is invaluable to me.”

As the meeting wore on, Snape’s attention returned to the young woman. She had spoken only briefly, her voice low and measured, but there was a confidence in her tone that belied her youth. When the meeting finally concluded and the Death Eaters began to disperse, Snape lingered near the doorway, his dark eyes following her as she moved through the crowd.

She passed him without a word at first, her dark eyes flicking toward him with a faint glimmer of amusement. Then she paused, turning to face him fully.

“Professor Snape,” she said softly, her voice carrying a hint of teasing. “It’s an honor to meet you.”

He raised an eyebrow, his tone clipped. “And you are?”

She smiled—a slow, deliberate expression that carried a hint of challenge. “You’ll learn soon enough.”

And with that, she was gone, disappearing into the shadows of the corridor.

Outside, the storm raged, rain lashing against the crumbling walls of the manor. As Snape stepped into the night, his thoughts were a tangled web of calculations and suspicions. The road ahead was fraught with peril, and the pieces on the board were shifting.

And somewhere in the darkness, a young woman with dark eyes and a dangerous smile was waiting.

—-

[ms-snape]

Beneath The Dark Mark

This is an Adult!Severus Snape x reader story

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3 (soon)

[ms-snape]

HELPPPP

[ms-snape]

Could you perhaps write an imagine about Severus meeting reader after he joins the death eaters(she’s one as well) they become close and she later suspects his spying for albus and confronts him alone about it and he convinces her to join him?

Hey, I really liked ur request I started writing it and then I realized I could actually write as a story with chapters cause I really like the idea and can’t imagine it as one shot, I already started writing the first chapter so I’ll probably post it today or another day of this week….

Tell me if u like the idea❤️